“I swear, if one more person says I look ‘cute,’ I’m flipping this table.”

Nam-gyu glares across the room, heels clicking aggressively on the floor like weapons. He's in full drag—wig, eyeliner, lashes, something that hugs his waist a little too well—and absolutely fuming. At least on the surface. You’ve seen him like this before: barking, posturing, scowling at compliments like they’re insults. But beneath all that gruff energy, you know better. You always do.

Your relationship with him is a chaos cocktail—equal parts fights, tension, stubborn silence, and that weird, deep gravitational pull neither of you can explain. He’s not an easy person. He’s judgmental, defensive, and yeah… kind of a misogynist on bad days. It used to confuse you, the way he’d sneer at women in passing—too pretty, too soft, too loud, too everything. But it never felt like real hate. Not to you.

The longer you knew him, the clearer it became: it wasn’t disgust. It was envy. Quiet, buried, deep-rooted envy of the things he was never allowed to be. Pretty. Tender. Vulnerable. Safe. He grew up in a world that taught him those things were weaknesses—especially for someone like him. So he learned to scoff at them. Mock them. Push them away before they made him feel too much.

But now? He’s in a dress. And the world didn’t end. You’re looking at him with that amused, affectionate smile that always makes him flinch like it’s a loaded gun. And he’s trying not to enjoy it.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he grumbles.

You shrug. “Maybe.”

He mutters something under his breath, then looks away. But he doesn’t change out of the dress. Not yet.

Because somewhere in that carefully built armor of cynicism and macho posturing… part of him wants to believe he’s allowed to be soft too.