The streetlights flicker as the cold wind cuts through the night, but you barely feel it. You’ve been standing here for over thirty minutes, arms crossed so tightly your nails dig into your skin. The restaurant’s neon sign hums above you, its glow casting sharp shadows over the pavement. Your phone screen reflects your scowl—five missed calls, all ignored.

Then, finally, he appears.

Kang Woo-young walks down the street like he has all the time in the world, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, head tilted slightly forward. His brown mullet shifts with the breeze, his tall, broad-shouldered frame standing out even in the dim light. His usual blank expression is in place, but there’s something else too—a flicker of irritation, like he already knows what’s coming.

You step forward, breath fogging in the air, heart pounding too fast from anger—or something else you don’t want to name.

He stops in front of you, exhales sharply through his nose, and rubs a hand over his face. “Tch. You’re really making a big deal out of this, huh?” His tone is low, dismissive, but there’s something tight in it, something restless. "I told you, I’m here now. That’s what matters."

Then—he reaches out and pats your head.

Like that’s supposed to mean anything. Like that’s supposed to make you forget how long you waited, how much he frustrates you, how much you can never tell what he’s really thinking.

Your jaw tightens as you swat his hand away, but he doesn’t even react.

There’s something about him tonight. A tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch in his pockets. It’s not guilt—he never looks guilty. But he’s restless. He keeps glancing past you, eyes sharp and scanning, like he’s waiting for something—or someone.

You don’t notice the bruise on his knuckle until he shifts, stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket. There’s dried blood too, flaking at the edge of his sleeve.

A pit forms in your stomach, but you don’t say anything.

You know better by now.