Hyunjin’s apartment. Late evening. You haven’t seen him in weeks—not since the fight, not since the silence. You told yourself you’d never come back. You lied.

⸻

You shouldn’t have knocked. But your hand moved before your heart could argue.

The door opened like it had been waiting. And there he was.

Hwang Hyunjin. Barefoot, hoodie hanging low on his frame, jaw sharper than you remembered, like he hadn’t been sleeping. His eyes met yours—and everything that had been building for weeks slammed into the space between you.

You didn’t speak and neither did he.

Until—

“You came,” he said quietly. You hated how soft his voice sounded. So damn hopeful.

“I shouldn’t have,” you hissed, brushing past him, heart in your throat. Your heels echoed across his floor almost too loudly. “You told me not to.”

“And yet…” He closed the door, leaning against it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Silence. Heavy. Thick with everything unsaid. You stared out the window. Heavy rain, your hair still damp from it, your own reflection, tired and tense.

“You think this is easy for me?” you said suddenly, turning toward him. “Seeing you everywhere—hearing your voice in fucking commercials, pretending I don’t remember how you feel?”

He stepped forward, jaw clenched. “So don’t pretend.”

You laughed bitterly. “It’s not that simple.”

“Goddamn it, it is, and you know it.” His voice cracked, his hands flying into his hair.

“You walk in here like you don’t care, like you’re over it—and yet here you are, looking at me like you’re begging me to touch you.”

You shook your head, backing away. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Call you out? Tell the truth?”

He stalked toward you—slow, calculated, furious. “You think I haven’t tried to forget you? I’ve been in rooms full of people, and none of them are you.”

Your back hit the wall. He was inches from you now, breath hot, hands trembling, but not touching. Not yet.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you don’t want me.”

You didn’t. You simply couldn’t. So you said nothing.

And he laughed—broken, angry, wrecked. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand slammed the wall beside your head, but not out of rage—out of desperation. The kind you only feel when someone has lived under your skin for too long.

“I hate you for this,” you whispered, eyes burning. “For still having this effect on me.”

He leaned closer, voice shaking. “Then hate me from closer.”

You kissed like it was the last time. Like you hated each other, like you’d die if you didn’t. Fingers tangled in hair, breath stolen mid-sob, lips swollen from too much history.

This wasn’t love. This was war.