You’d been with Nam-gyu all evening, perched on the ripped leather booth seat across from him at that greasy 24-hour diner you both stumbled into after Club Pentagon started clearing out. The rain had started up again outside, drumming on the windows, neon signs flickering off the wet pavement. He’d been half-listening to your stories, pretending to scroll through his phone, smirking at your small laughs. You always stuck around, like a stray dog with nowhere else to be. He liked that. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t decide.

“You know you don’t have to follow me around like this,” he said suddenly, leaning back, his voice slicing through the stale fry-scented air. “You think I don’t see it? The blush? You act like you’re different. You’re not. You just like the idea of me. Same as everyone else.”

Your hands went still on your cup of cold coffee. The diner’s hum pressed in. The flicker of the overhead bulb, the hiss of the fryer, the half-asleep cook behind the counter. You looked down, mouth opening, but nothing came out. Because what was there to say? You didn’t have the words ready when he cornered you like this, when he spat poison and waited to see if you’d flinch.

“Don’t just sit there,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Say something. C’mon. Say I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not here because I’m some messed-up thrill. That you don’t want bragging rights you warmed my bed or held my hand. Go on.”

Your throat tightened. You tried, you really did, but it stuck inside you. All those nights you’d sat next to him on that curb by the club’s side door, brushing ashes off his sleeve. The times you’d pressed your cheek to his shoulder when he was too high to remember your name. The stupid, soft hope that maybe he saw you the same way you saw him, cracked open, real, not just a rush.

He slammed his palm on the table, rattling the cheap condiments. “God, you’re pathetic. Why do you stay? Huh? You think you’re special? You’re not. People like you are easy to toss. I’ve done it before.” He paused, the sneer twitching at the corner of his mouth, but something in his eyes flickered, like he was searching your silence for an answer he didn’t know he needed.

When he finally leaned forward, voice lower, there was no smirk left. Just a bitter, quiet question that slipped out before he could choke it back. “You really like me? Not the club, not the mess. Me?—“