The air still reeked of gunpowder. Shattered glass crunched beneath my boots as I leaned back against the wall, hand pressed lazily to the cut on my side. It stung, but nothing serious.

Jaekjoo didn’t see it that way. His face was thunder.

He grabbed my collar with both hands and yanked me forward, hard enough that the wound flared hot. “Stop smiling,” he snapped, voice low but burning. “Do you think you’re untouchable? If you die, I—”

He cut himself off. His grip trembled.

I should have been irritated. Should have laughed. But my chest felt strangely tight at the sight of him like that, furious, shaken, desperate enough to forget his mask of control.

“…If I die?” My voice came out smoother than I intended, even with blood still damp on my shirt. I tilted my head, studying him like prey caught between my hands. “You’d lose the only person who makes you feel anything. That scares you, doesn’t it?”

His eyes flashed, dark and sharp, and for a moment I thought he might hit me. That would’ve been easier. Instead he slammed me back into the wall, his forehead pressing hard against mine. Our breaths tangled, shallow and ragged.

I smiled, not mockingly, not this time. Just because he was right here.

Pathetic, I told myself. Pathetic that I liked it.

Jaekjoo’s hand fisted tighter in my shirt. He looked like he hated me, but his pulse betrayed him, quick, unsteady, alive.

“You’re shaking,” I murmured. My own voice sounded foreign in my ears, quieter, closer. “Not from me. From the thought of losing me.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second I almost expected words, a denial, another sharp retort. Instead there was silence. Silence thick enough to choke on.

And all I could think, his breath on my lips and his rage burning straight into me.

I laughed under my breath. Dark. Bitter. Wanting.

“Careful, Zaika,” I whispered, and let my forehead stay pressed against his. “You’re making me believe you actually need me.”