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aeliuss · 2 days ago

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Numb to the Feeling

MDNI, 18+ content.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 Heard you got a heart, let me see/I need you to split that thing with me

featuring: ex!boyfriend changbin x afab reader, rebound!jisung, bestfriend!seungmin

genre: smut with plot

notes: part two of skzxchase atlantic songs! this one is inspired by numb to the feeling but i think i kinda strayed from it a little whoops.

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. self destructive behavior. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here.

The party hums around you, all blurred lights and slurred voices, but it barely reaches you. The Xanax pulls everything under, softens the edges, turns the noise into something distant and unimportant.

You’re draped across Jisung, legs tangled with his on the couch, the warmth of his body pressed into your side. He’s talking—he’s always talking—words spilling from his lips in a bright, endless stream of whatever thought crosses his mind.

You only catch pieces of it.

“—and then Minho was like, ‘Jisung, if you break another controller, I’m kicking you out,’ but obviously, it wasn’t my fault—”

His voice rises and falls, full of animated gestures, his hands moving as if he can’t contain all the energy buzzing under his skin. He’s grinning, dimples carving deep into his cheeks, eyes crinkling with laughter even though you barely said anything at all.

Jisung is easy.

He makes things easy.

He doesn’t ask why your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes or why your fingers feel too light against his wrist, like you’re not really there. He just lets you exist beside him, lets you slip into the warmth of his presence without asking for anything in return.

Except, you think, maybe he does.

His fingers brush over your bare thigh absentmindedly, featherlight, like he’s testing the weight of his touch. His knee nudges yours, lingers. His laughter softens as he looks at you, eyes tracing the shape of your face like he’s memorizing it.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs suddenly, and it’s so gentle, so earnest, that it makes something twist in your chest.

You exhale slowly, letting your head tip against the couch, letting the drug drag you further down.

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmur, voice lilting, almost lazy.

Jisung pouts. “Why not? It’s true.”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, he might say something softer. He might tilt his head and ask what’s wrong. He might lace his fingers through yours and tell you he’s not going anywhere, that he’d stay if you let him, that he could be everything for you.

And you don’t want to hear it.

You slip your fingers through his instead, squeezing lightly, just enough to make him smile again. Just enough to keep him where you need him—right here, right now, filling the silence with something easy, something warm.

Even if it doesn’t reach you.

Jisung brightens at the small squeeze of your fingers, his grin widening, his body shifting just a little closer, like he thinks you want him to.

Maybe you do.

Maybe you don’t.

It doesn’t really matter.

“I knew you liked me,” he teases, dimples deep, voice curling around the words like he’s savoring them. “You act all cool and mysterious, but I see right through you.”

His knee nudges yours again, deliberate this time, playful. He’s watching you closely, waiting for your reaction.

You hum, noncommittal, tilting your head against the couch. The room is tilting with you, slow and syrup-thick.

Jisung sighs, dramatic. “God, you’re so gone, aren’t you?”

You smile, barely. “And you’re so loud.”

He gasps, clutching at his chest. “Wow. Hurtful. Do you even like me?”

The joke hangs between you, warm and harmless. But for a second—just a second—you think you see something else in his expression, something softer, something real.

It makes your stomach turn.

You untangle your legs from his, shifting, suddenly restless. The warmth of him is too much now, his presence pressing in, his affection curling around you like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating.

“I need a drink,” you mumble, already pushing yourself up.

Jisung blinks, startled by the sudden movement, but he recovers fast. “Want me to come with?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to say no without giving something away.

“Stay,” you murmur instead, resting a hand on his shoulder for just a second, just enough to keep the moment easy, to keep him from seeing the way your pulse has picked up, the way something in your chest is starting to ache.

Jisung watches you go, his smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth, but something else flickers in his eyes.

And then you step into the crowd, and the weight of him disappears.

Only to be replaced by something heavier.

By someone else.

The kitchen is dimly lit, the overhead bulb flickering weakly against the haze of smoke curling through the air. The counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, sticky red cups, crumpled napkins. Someone leans against the fridge, laughing too loudly, and the bass of the music rattles against your ribs.

You press through the bodies, fingers trailing absently over the countertop, reaching for the nearest bottle of something dark, something bitter. It doesn’t really matter what.

The glass is cool against your palm, grounding, and you tip it back without thinking, the burn slicing through the fog of the Xanax for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel it.

And then, before you can put the bottle down, before you can exhale, there’s a shift in the air.

A shadow at your side. A presence curling close.

Familiar.

Unshakable.

“Drinking on top of that shit?”

The voice is low, rough, curling at the edges like smoke, like something burned out and smoldering.

Your stomach tightens.

Slowly, you lower the bottle, fingers tightening around the glass, resisting the instinct to turn around.

But he doesn’t wait for you to.

Changbin moves in first, stepping into your space like he belongs there, like he always has. The heat of him presses against your side, solid and steady, so different from the featherlight warmth of Jisung, so much heavier.

His eyes flicker down, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallow, as if he can see the way the liquor settles in your bloodstream, mixing with everything else.

“You know that’s a bad idea, right?”

You finally turn to face him.

And for the first time tonight, the numbness wavers.

The bottle is slipping in your hand, condensation slick against your palm, but you don’t move to fix it. Not when he’s this close. Not when the air between you is thick with everything you haven’t said.

Changbin looks at you like he knows you. Like he always has.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

His gaze flickers, slow—over the shape of your mouth, the exposed line of your throat, the slight unsteadiness in your fingers. He catches the way your eyes look past him, darting to the kitchen doorway–your escape. His jaw tightens, just barely.

“You gonna run again?” His voice is low, rough. Almost tired.

Your stomach twists.

You lift your chin, forcing a smile. “I’m not running.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him does—something in the way his fingers flex against the counter, like he wants to reach for you, like he almost does.

Then, quieter—like he doesn’t even mean to say it:

“Feels like you always are.”

Your throat goes tight.

He exhales, slow. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, like he’s thinking—like he’s trying to find the right words, but when his gaze finds yours again, there’s nothing hesitant about it.

"You left Jisung sitting there waiting for you."

You already see it—Jisung, knee bouncing, fingers twisting at a loose thread in his jeans, his smile still there but smaller now. Waiting. Hoping. Something small twists in your chest, but you shove it down, down, down where you always do. “He’ll be fine.”

Changbin huffs a breath, shaking his head. “Cold.”

But there’s no bite to it. No real judgment. Just something heavier. Something aching.

Like he’s used to it.

Like he still hasn’t let himself stop caring.

The realization makes your fingers tighten around the bottle. You don’t want that from him. You don’t want that kind of tenderness, that kind of understanding.

You want him to let you go.

You need him to let you go.

Because you don’t know how to let go of him.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur, voice quieter now. “Check in on me. Worry about me.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works around a swallow.

Then, softly—almost fragile in the way he says it:

“I don’t know how to stop.”

The air thickens.

Your pulse pounds—a slow, aching thud, deep in your ribs.

Changbin shifts closer, breath warm as it ghosts over your cheek, his fingers brushing yours—just barely, just enough to feel it, just enough to make your body ache with how easy it would be to grab hold and never let go.

“I don’t fucking know how to stop.”

Your breath catches.

Because he says it like it hurts. Like it’s killing him. Like he’s spent every second since you walked away trying to carve you out of himself and failing, failing, failing.

Your fingers twitch around the bottle, unsteady, your body drawn toward him in a way that feels inevitable, inescapable. Like gravity. Like a force you have no power against.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe you never did.

Your pulse is a drumbeat, a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. The taste of whiskey lingers on your tongue, warm and burning, but Changbin’s closer now, and he smells like something heavier, something richer. Like leather and smoke and something achingly familiar.

Something you used to call home.

You should say something. You should step back. You should turn and walk away before this goes too far—before you do something reckless, something irreversible.

But then his fingers ghost over yours again, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

You turn at the same time he does, and your mouths crash together.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s teeth and tongues and desperation, the kind of kiss that tastes like regret and whiskey and everything you can’t say. His hands find your hips, gripping, dragging you against him like he needs to feel every inch of you, like he needs to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re here, that you still fit against him the way you always have.

You whimper into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the heat of him, by the way his fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. But you’re not going anywhere. Not this time. Not when the world is tilting and you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

The party is still raging around you, but it barely registers. The music, the voices, the bodies moving in the dim haze of the kitchen—all of it fades, slipping into the background, because the only thing that matters is this. Him. The way he groans when you fist your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer until there’s nothing between you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breathless. His forehead presses against yours, his hands trembling where they clutch at your hips. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You drag him with you instead, stumbling through the crowd, through the hallway, through the door of the first empty room you can find.

And then you’re on him again, or maybe he’s on you, and it doesn’t matter, because you’re both starving. Because his mouth is on your throat, sucking, biting, marking. Because your hands are shoving under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex under your touch.

Because this is what you know.

This is where you both fall apart.

The door slams shut behind you, rattling in its frame, but neither of you care. Not when your back hits the wall, not when Changbin’s hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your jaw, tilting your head just the way he wants.

“God,” he breathes, voice rough, half-wrecked already. “I fucking—”

He cuts himself off with a kiss, like he’s trying to swallow the words before they slip, before they make this more than just a mistake in the dark. But you feel it anyway, in the way his hands shake, in the way his teeth scrape over your bottom lip like he wants to ruin you, like he wants to remind you that no one else can have you like this.

His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, lifting—he doesn’t even have to tell you to wrap your legs around his waist because you already are, already gasping into his mouth when he presses you harder against the wall, the thick weight of him slotting perfectly between your thighs.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sting, at the way your hips roll against his, desperate, searching. You should say something sharp, something cutting, something to break the tension curling thick in the air, but you can’t. You don’t have the breath.

Not when he’s grinding against you like that. Not when his hands are shoving up your dress, fingers skimming over bare skin, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

“Tell me you missed me,” he groans, voice raw, rough, breaking just slightly at the edges. “Tell me you—”

You cut him off with your mouth, biting at his lower lip, dragging him closer, closer, like you can stop him from asking things you don’t want to answer.

His fingers slip between your thighs, pressing against the damp heat of your underwear, and he groans, head falling forward against your shoulder.

Your head tips back against the wall, lips parting on a soft, needy sound as he rubs slow, teasing circles over the fabric, dragging out your desperation.

“Been fucking him?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his fingers still torturously light between your legs. “Jisung?”

Your breath hitches.

Your body jolts with it, that name, the way Changbin spits it like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging. “Don’t.”

He laughs, rough and bitter, and presses his fingers harder against you, two thick digits pressing firm over the damp lace. You gasp, nails sinking into his shoulders, but he’s relentless, rolling his wrist in slow, torturous circles, like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you with his hands alone.

“Don’t?” he echoes, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking a mark into your skin like he needs to brand himself into you. “Don’t what? Don’t ask?”

He bites, sharp enough to make you whimper, sharp enough that your back arches away from the wall. He catches you easily, pressing you back down with the weight of his body alone, keeping you right where he wants you—between him and something solid, nowhere to run.

“Don’t bring him into this,” you breathe, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Changbin stills for half a second, his breath heavy against your skin. Then, he drags his fingers down, down, pushing your panties aside, running a slow, teasing stroke through your folds. You shudder.

His voice is quieter now. Darker. “What? You got a heart now?”

His words sink deep, curling low in your stomach, hot and aching. You want to shove him away. You want to pull him closer. You want to say something sharp, something to cut as deep as he does, but all that comes out is a broken little sound as he presses two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, stretching you open with that same brutal patience he always has when he wants to make you come undone.

Your nails scrape down his back, desperate, and he groans, rocking his hips into yours like he can’t help himself, like this is torture for him too.

"Feels like you missed me," he murmurs against your skin, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt.

You clench around him, thighs tightening around his waist, and he laughs—low and wrecked, like he’s just as far gone as you are.

"I—" Your voice catches, breaks. Your body is betraying you, rocking into every stroke, every roll of his wrist, every dirty, possessive press of his lips against your throat. "I hate you."

Changbin groans, shoving his fingers deeper, his thumb dragging slick circles over your clit. "Liar."

And maybe you are.

Your head tips back against the wall with a soft thud, breath coming in short, uneven gasps as his fingers work you open, unrelenting, knowing.

Maybe you are a liar. Maybe you have a heart. Maybe it only beats like this—frantic, desperate—when he’s the one touching you, when he’s the one tearing you apart like you belong to him.

Your hands slide up his arms, nails biting into the thick muscle of his biceps as he fucks you open on his fingers, slow but deliberate, every movement dripping with something you don’t want to name.

"You still thinking about him?" His voice is lower now, rougher, like it’s costing him something to ask. His mouth is hot against your jaw, his teeth scraping the skin. "Still thinking about Jisung while you’re dripping all over my fucking hand?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your throat is too tight, your breath too ragged, your body too wound up and strung out on the way his fingers fuck into you—slow, deliberate, merciless.

But silence is still an answer.

Changbin’s jaw clenches. You feel it against your throat, where his lips had been, where his teeth had pressed down like a warning, a brand. He hates this. Hates that he even had to ask. Hates that somewhere, in the dark, rotten part of him that only ever comes out when it’s about you, he actually wonders.

His fingers don’t stop—not yet.

Maybe they should. Maybe he should pull away and let you feel the loss of him, let you suffer for making him doubt even for a second, for breaking up with him after three years–three fucking years. But he’s weak when it comes to you, and you’re so fucking wet, so tight around his fingers, and he’s too far gone to punish himself like that.

Instead, he curls his fingers deeper, watches your mouth fall open, watches your body betray you.

His fingers drive into you harder, rough and unrelenting, dragging slick sounds from between your thighs, forcing them out of you like a confession. Your hips jerk against his hand, desperate for more, but he keeps the pace steady, keeps you on the edge without letting you tip over.

Your hands clutch at him, curling into the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t care. He’s too caught up in the way you look like this—ruined and helpless, completely at his mercy.

"Shouldn't even be touching you," he says, voice rough with something that sounds like self-hatred. "Shouldn’t even fucking want to."

But he does.

God, he does.

It's in the way his fingers keep working inside you, curling, pressing, dragging you open like he never stopped knowing you, like he never stopped wanting you. It’s in the way his free hand grips your waist too tight, fingertips pressing bruises into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.

Your breath stutters, thighs shaking around his hips, and he wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that—like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered, like he’s the only one who can break you apart like this.

But he can’t. Can’t.

So he does the only thing he can—he keeps pushing you higher, making you take everything he gives, even when he knows he shouldn’t.

"You don't even deserve this," he mutters against your jaw, voice thick, rough. "You don’t deserve me."

You don’t.

You know that.

But it doesn’t stop your body from clenching down around his fingers, doesn’t stop your hands from grabbing at him like he’s something solid in the wreckage. Doesn’t stop the pathetic, needy sound that slips from your throat when he presses his palm against your clit, dragging slick, messy circles over the swollen bud.

Changbin swears, low and ragged, his forehead pressing into yours like he can’t bear to look at you but can’t bring himself to pull away either. His breath is hot, uneven, his body taut with something thick and aching.

"You’re so fucking spoiled," he mutters, words a breath against your lips, so close you could kiss him if you weren’t falling apart around his hand. "Always taking from me. Always coming back like I’ll just give you whatever you want."

You should say something back—something sharp, something to cut as deep as he does. But you can’t.

Not when he’s pressing into you like that.

Not when his fingers stroke over that spot inside you with cruel precision, not when the rough grind of his palm is sending sparks shooting down your spine.

Not when you’re this fucking close.

Your nails bite into his shoulders, hips rolling into every thrust of his hand, breath coming in short, stuttered gasps.

He watches you, watches the way your body tightens, the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes squeeze shut like you can’t handle looking at him while he tears you apart.

His jaw clenches.

"Look at me," he orders, voice dark, ruined.

You force your eyes open—just barely, just enough to see the heat burning behind his own, just enough to see the way his lips part when he watches you come undone for him.

His fingers don’t stop.

"That’s it," he breathes, pressing his forehead harder against yours, dragging you over the edge. "Give it to me."

Your body locks up as the orgasm rips through you—hot, all-consuming, the kind that leaves you shaking apart in his arms. A choked cry breaks from your throat, swallowed up by Changbin’s mouth as he presses against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough.

His fingers don’t stop. Not yet.

He works you through it, dragging out every last shudder, every last pulse around his fingers, keeping you right on that high until it’s too much—until your body jerks in his hold, oversensitive, teetering on the edge of pain. Only then does he slow, only then does he pull his fingers from you, slick and glistening.

Your legs threaten to give out, and he catches you, a steadying hand braced against your waist. It’s unfair, how stable he still is, how composed, while you feel like a live wire, nerves fried and body still trembling.

Changbin lifts his fingers to his lips, dragging his tongue over them with a slow, deliberate flick. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as he groans low in his throat. “Still taste the same,” he murmurs, like it’s a fucking confession.

Your breath catches, shame curling beneath your ribs, but it doesn’t stop the way your body reacts—the way heat surges back to life in your belly, the way your thighs twitch at the sight of him.

He knows. Of course he knows.

His free hand slides up your side, fingers dragging over the fabric of your dress, before fisting it tight, pulling you back against him. He’s still hard, straining against his jeans, thick and unyielding where he presses between your legs.

Changbin's grip on your dress tightens, his knuckles white with restraint, but there's no stopping the way his hips push into you, grinding against the soaked heat between your thighs like he's trying to brand himself into you all over again.

"You think he’ll fuck you like this?" he mutters, voice low, rough, almost dangerous. "Think he’ll touch you like I do?"

Your breath stutters, nails biting into his shoulders, but you refuse to give him the answer he wants. He doesn't need to hear it. He already knows.

Because no one has ever touched you like Changbin does. No one ever will.

He fists the back of your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your eyes on him, forcing you to see the wreckage on his face—the fury, the desperation, the way his lips part like he's on the verge of saying something he shouldn't. But instead, all he does is groan, low and wrecked, before he crushes his mouth against yours, biting, demanding, tearing you apart like he wants to devour you whole.

His hands are rough, bruising as he grabs at you, pushing your dress higher, higher—until his fingers hook into your panties and tear them clean off with a sharp, impatient tug. You barely have a second to react before he's undoing his jeans, his breath hot against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours like he's trying to hold himself together.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice dark, ruined. His hands are on your thighs, spreading you open, positioning you exactly where he wants. "Tell me, and I will."

You don’t.

And he was never strong enough to resist you.

He groans your name like a curse, like a plea, and then he's pushing into you, thick and unrelenting, stretching you open with a slow, brutal force that has your fingers clawing at his back, your breath shattering into nothing.

His body shudders against yours, every muscle tensed like he's barely holding himself back, like the control is slipping from his fingers with every inch he buries inside you.

Changbin groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest, through yours, sinking into the heat pooling low in your stomach. His fingers dig into your thighs, strong and unyielding as he presses you harder against the wall, his body slotting against yours like you were made to fit together.

His cock stretches you open inch by inch, slow but deliberate, forcing you to feel everything—the way he throbs, the way he holds himself back just enough to savor the way your body takes him in. Your breath stutters, nails biting into his shoulders as he sinks deeper, as pleasure licks up your spine like fire.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice strained, forehead pressing to yours. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tighter, grounding himself in the way you tremble around him. "You feel—" He swears again, words failing him, swallowed up by the heat between you.

His hips roll forward, pushing the last of the way in, seating himself deep, and your head tilts back, lips parting in a gasp. He catches it with his mouth, kisses you hard and messy, like he’s trying to keep you tethered to him, to this moment.

His control is slipping—you can feel it.

In the way his hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. In the way his hips twitch forward, just barely restrained. In the way his breath shakes, uneven, as he presses his forehead to your shoulder, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

"You’re gonna ruin me," he mutters, voice rough, wrecked, like he hates how much he means it.

And then he moves.

The first thrust has you arching into him, legs locking around his waist, a broken sound slipping from your lips. The second has him groaning, deep and low, his hands dragging up your back, holding you tighter, closer, like he can’t stand the thought of even an inch of space between you.

There’s nothing slow about it now.

It’s desperate, all-consuming—the way his hips snap against yours, the way his breath comes in ragged gasps between curses, the way he needs you, like nothing else exists beyond this moment, beyond the way you feel wrapped around him, taking everything he gives you.

Your nails rake down his back, dragging red-hot lines over sweat-slick skin, and the way he shudders against you sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs. He’s buried so deep, fucking into you with a fervor that borders on reckless, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up even a little.

“Shit—” The word punches out of him when you tighten around him, legs squeezing at his waist, urging him closer, harder, deeper. His hands slip under your thighs, hiking them higher, angling you just right—until the next snap of his hips has your breath catching, your vision blurring.

The rhythm turns brutal.

Each thrust slams you against the wall, knocking the air from your lungs, but it’s not enough—not when the pleasure surges higher, tightening, coiling, threatening to spill over with every roll of his hips.

He’s losing himself in it, in you.

The growl that rumbles from his chest is almost primal as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping along sensitive skin. His breath is hot, ragged, desperate, and when his tongue flicks over the mark he’s just left, his pace stutters—just for a second—before he’s slamming back in, deeper, rougher.

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to keep himself grounded, like he’s barely holding on. Each thrust is punishing, his pace relentless, dragging cries from your lips that he swallows with another bruising kiss.

“Fuck—” His voice is wrecked, strained, like he’s unraveling with every squeeze, every pulse of your body around him. His hands slide up, palms flattening against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in as he fucks into you like he has no intention of stopping—like he can’t stop. Every drag of his cock against your walls, every snap of his hips, sends sparks of pleasure searing through you, building, coiling tighter, tighter—

“Binnie—” you gasp, fingers twisting in his damp hair, pulling him even closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat and need and the overwhelming sensation of him.

Changbin shudders at the way you say his name—broken, breathless, wrecked. He’s always loved the way you sound when he’s inside you, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. But this time, there’s something else—something raw, something he doesn’t want to name.

He’s fucking you too hard, too deep, but he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when you keep pulling him in, meeting every thrust, making those breathy little noises that go straight to his head.

“Say it again,” he growls, his lips dragging over your jaw, over your throat, sucking another mark into your skin like he has something to prove. “Say my fucking name.”

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, your body arching against his as he pounds into you, reckless, relentless. His hips stutter for half a second when you tighten around him, when your legs squeeze at his waist like you’re trying to trap him inside you.

“Changbin,” you moan again, and his restraint snaps.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the wall with one hand, his other arm curling around your waist, keeping you right where he wants you. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as he fucks into you harder, faster, his control slipping away with every slick, desperate sound you make.

The bass outside is still pulsing, laughter threading through the walls like distant echoes, but here, in this dim-lit space, it’s just the two of you. The heat of it still lingers—his breath against your skin, his hands that had held you up like you were something holy, something to be worshiped.

Now, he’s unraveling.

Changbin’s forehead nearly brushes yours, his hands braced against the wall on either side of you, like he’s still trying to keep you here, keep you his. There’s sweat at his temples, his breath still uneven as he lifts trembling fingers to your cheek—hesitant, searching.

"You okay?" His voice is hoarse, raw from how he had moaned your name minutes ago.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come right away. Because no—you’re not okay. You are cracked porcelain, filled to the brim with something you don’t want to name. But admitting that would mean admitting something deeper, something messier, something that tastes too much like regret.

So instead, you let your face turn away from his touch.

“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, distant. They taste like steel on your tongue.

His fingers twitch, then fall away.

The shift in the air is immediate. A thread snapping, a wound reopening, the ghost of something unsaid rising between you.

You push at his chest, the space between you stretching like a chasm. Your dress, still pushed up from where he had taken you against the wall, falls back into place as you smooth trembling hands over the fabric, as if that could erase what just happened.

As if it could erase him.

"Don't do that," he says, voice quieter now.

"Do what?"

"That." His hand gestures between you—this distance you’ve forced, this void where warmth used to be. His voice is paper-thin, fraying at the edges. "Act like this was nothing."

You exhale sharply through your nose, willing your hands to stop shaking. "It doesn’t have to be something, Changbin."

His jaw clenches. "You don’t mean that."

You do. You have to. If you don’t, then you’ll have to face the way he looked at you when he fell apart in your arms, the way his fingers had gripped you like you were something fragile, something worth holding on to.

"You got what you wanted, didn’t you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp as glass, crueler than you intended.

The flicker in his eyes is immediate. Hurt, stark and unfiltered.

"Are you fucking serious?" His voice is hoarse, disbelief laced into every syllable.

He stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you, like the version of you that had just clung to him, breathless and wanting, had been nothing more than a ghost.

Your stomach twists, nausea curling at the edges of your ribs, but you keep your chin high, arms crossed tight over your chest, locking the warmth of his touch out, locking yourself in.

"It was just sex," you say, and it feels like something cruel, something vile.

Changbin blinks, breath hitching for a second, like the words landed somewhere deep, somewhere they weren’t supposed to go. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

"Just sex," he repeats, hollow, like he’s testing the words in his own mouth. Then he laughs, but it’s sharp, bitter. "Right. Okay."

He shakes his head, stepping back, and you feel the loss of him immediately, like the world is suddenly too big, too cold. "I don’t fucking get you," he mutters, rubbing a palm over his face before his gaze snaps back to you, dark, wounded. "I mean, you—you wanted this. You wanted me. But now you’re acting like it didn’t mean shit."

"Because it didn’t," you lie, the words leaving a burn in your throat.

His jaw clenches, something desperate flickering in his eyes, something frantic, like a man grasping at fraying rope.

"Don’t do that." His voice is quieter now, lower, like if he says it softly enough, you’ll take it back. "Don’t fucking lie to me."

You inhale sharply, nails digging into your arms. "I’m not."

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, a quick, jerky motion. "Right," he breathes, his fingers curling into fists. "Then why the fuck did it feel different?"

"Changbin—"

"Tell me," he demands, stepping closer again, and it takes everything in you not to move back, not to let him see you crack. "Because I—I felt it. And I know you did, too."

You shake your head, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "You're overthinking it."

"Overthinking it?" He lets out a breath, something almost like a laugh, but it’s wrong, jagged. His hands go to his hips, his gaze burning into yours. "So what, we just go back out there like nothing happened? Like I didn’t just—like we didn’t just—"

"Yes." The word is sharp, final. You force yourself to meet his gaze, even as everything inside you is screaming. "That’s exactly what we do."

His breath leaves him in a rush.

For a moment, he just stares at you. And then, slowly, he shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip like he’s trying to keep something inside.

"You’re so fucking scared of feeling something real, aren’t you?" His voice is quieter now, but there’s something breaking inside it, something fragile and aching.

Your nails bite into your palms. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

His expression hardens. "Yeah, you do."

Silence swells between you, thick, suffocating. The kind that drowns. The kind that chokes.

Changbin exhales sharply through his nose, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. His fists are clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles bloom white, like he’s physically holding himself back.

He scoffs, shaking his head again, slower this time, like he’s finally, finally getting it. "You know what? Fine," he mutters, his voice scraped raw. "You wanna pretend like this was just some—some meaningless fuck, then go ahead. Lie to me. Lie to yourself." He steps back another inch, and that loss, god, it burns. "But don’t you dare stand there and tell me it wasn’t real."

His voice cracks on the last word.

You should walk away.

You should turn around, push open the door, step back into the noise of the party, let the bass swallow you whole. You should do anything—anything—but stand here and let the weight of him, of what you’ve done, press into your ribs like something suffocating.

But you don’t move.

Because he’s right. And that terrifies you.

Instead, you cross your arms tighter, your nails biting into your skin. "What do you want me to say, Changbin?"

He breathes out a laugh, humorless, shaking his head again like he can’t believe you. "I want you to stop fucking running," he snaps. "I want you to tell me—tell yourself—the truth for once."

Your throat tightens. "The truth?" you echo, and your voice is a hollow thing, barely above a whisper. "The truth is that this was a mistake."

His face twists, something dark and wounded flickering through his expression like a storm about to break. His breath shudders in his chest, his lips parting as if to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

A mistake.

You watch as the word sinks into him, as his shoulders go rigid, as something in his eyes dims like a flame being snuffed out. His throat bobs, his jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to fight you on it. Like he wants to grab your face, shake you, force you to look at him, really look at him, and see what you’re doing.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he laughs. Low. Sharp. Bitter.

"Yeah?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "That what you tell yourself to make it easier?"

Your arms tighten around yourself. "It’s the truth," you say, though your voice isn’t as steady as you want it to be.

His lips part, then press into a thin line. He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to fix this, but you don’t. You can’t.

So, he shakes his head, exhaling a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You really wanna do this again?" His gaze burns into you. "Act like you don’t care? Like this wasn’t anything? Like we weren’t—" He stops, swiping a hand down his face. His voice drops lower, rougher. "Fuck, I’m so tired of this."

Something cracks in your chest.

Because you know what he means. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In this same suffocating space, standing across from him with words you don’t mean burning on your tongue. It’s been months, but nothing has changed.

You breathe in, steadying yourself. "This was different."

Changbin’s eyes snap to yours. "Different how?"

"It was just sex," you force yourself to repeat, the words feeling like barbed wire in your throat.

"Just sex," he repeats, hollow. His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek before he exhales sharply through his nose. "Right. Like it was just sex back then, too, huh?"

Your stomach turns to stone.

"That’s not—"

"Because I remember," he cuts in, his voice quiet but dangerous, "I remember the way you used to look at me. The way you used to hold me–"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "That was a long time ago, Changbin."

He laughs, shaking his head. "So what? It just stopped meaning something to you?" His voice is desperate now, raw with something you don’t want to name. "Because I’ve been trying—I’ve been trying so fucking hard to let this go, to let you go, but then you look at me like that, and —" He stops, his hands running through his hair, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. "How do you do it?" he asks, quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. "How do you just turn it off?"

You don’t answer.The silence that follows is sharp, razor-thin. He stares at you, something flickering behind his eyes—anger, heartbreak, disbelief.

The door creaks open.

The sound rips through the tension, shattering whatever was left between you.

Light spills into the room, along with the muffled bass of the party, and when you turn, you see them—a couple, drunken and laughing, stumbling inside, oblivious to the scene they’ve just walked into.

"Oh—shit, sorry," the guy says, blinking at the two of you. His girlfriend giggles, already tugging him back toward the door. "Didn’t know this room was taken."

You don’t think. You just move.

Before Changbin can say another word, before you can let yourself feel, you slip past him and out the door, into the noise, the heat, the blur of people who don’t know you, who don’t know what you just did, who don’t know what you’re still running from.

____________________________________________________________________________

The next morning comes like a slow, cruel punishment.

Your head is pounding—a dull, merciless throb behind your temples, the kind that makes the room spin when you try to move. Your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your stomach twisted in a nauseating knot.

You groan, rolling onto your side, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. The weight of last night sits on your chest, thick and suffocating, but it’s hazy—fragments of music, heat, Changbin’s voice tangled in yours.

And then… nothing.

Your brows knit together as you push yourself up, the effort making your stomach lurch. How the fuck did you even get home? You don’t remember leaving the party. Don’t remember changing into the oversized shirt draped over your frame.

Your hands fist in the fabric, fingers clumsy and trembling. Did you do this? Did someone else?

A flicker of panic stirs in your chest. Your heart rate spikes—until a voice, flat and unimpressed, cuts through the fog.

"You look like shit."

Seungmin is sitting in the chair by your desk, legs crossed, arms folded over his chest. He looks exactly the same as always—judgmental as fuck, like he’s been watching you for hours, waiting for you to wake up so he can lecture you.

Which, knowing him, is probably true.

A groan leaves your lips as you let your head fall back against the pillow. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Not quite." He tilts his head. "Though I did save your ass last night, so you’re welcome."

Your stomach churns. "How did I—?"

"You called me. I brought you home," he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s not something you should have already known.

Your fingers tighten around the blanket. "Did I—?"

"You barely made it up the stairs," Seungmin cuts in, voice cool. "You passed out the second you hit the bed. You were a mess. Barely conscious." A beat. "You took something, didn’t you?"

You shift under his gaze. "It wasn’t—"

"Don’t bullshit me." His tone isn’t sharp, but it doesn’t need to be. "Alcohol and what else?"

Your throat tightens. "Xanax."

He doesn’t react right away, just lets out a slow breath through his nose. Then, quietly, "Jesus Christ."

A beat of silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

You exhale, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "I don’t need a lecture."

Seungmin watches you, expression unreadable. “Do you even know how long you’ve been out?”

Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your body feels sluggish, your head thick with remnants of sleep. “A few hours?”

“Nineteen hours and thirty seven minutes.”

The number hangs in the air like a death sentence.

Nineteen hours.

The longest you’ve gone without a pill in—God, how long? Your stomach twists violently, your hands tightening around the fabric of the blanket. You feel it creeping up your spine—the craving, the panic, the itch under your skin that only ever gets worse.

You don't respond at first. You just breathe through it, shallow, unsteady, like maybe if you stay still enough, the discomfort will settle instead of swallowing you whole. But it doesn’t. It won’t. The ache is inside you now, twisting through your veins, crawling under your skin.

Your body knows.

Your stomach clenches, a deep, sour kind of nausea curling at the base of your throat. You swallow against it, shifting to sit up, but your limbs feel useless—weak, disconnected, fever-hot but shaking. Your fingers tighten around the blanket, grip slipping, damp with sweat.

You force out a breath. Your jaw locks against the answer he’s expecting. The truth. That your head is splitting open, that your body is begging for something, anything to dull the edges. That nineteen hours without it feels like your bones are trying to escape your skin.

But you don’t say any of that.

You wipe a shaky hand over your face. “I just need—”

Seungmin tilts his head, gaze sharp. “What?”

You shut your mouth.

You know what. He knows what.

You don’t have to say it.

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Seungmin doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. He just watches you, gaze steady, dissecting. Like he’s waiting for you to be honest. Like he’s giving you the chance.

You won’t take it.

Your throat feels tight, like something is lodged there, heavy and immovable. Your hands are trembling where they clutch the blanket, knuckles white. You dig your nails into the fabric, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure doesn’t help—not really. Nothing helps.

Seungmin exhales sharply through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re going through withdrawal.”

The word makes your stomach lurch. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to think about it. Because it makes it real—more real than the nausea, more real than the shaking, more real than the fact that you’re already considering how to make this stop.

“I’m fine,” you say. It’s useless. You sound anything but fine.

Seungmin scoffs, unimpressed. “You look like you’re dying.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Maybe I should.”

His expression hardens. “That’s not fucking funny.”

You shrug, but it takes too much effort, your limbs sluggish and aching. Your skin is too hot, but you’re shivering, cold sweat beading at your temples. It feels like your body is tearing itself apart from the inside out. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what you deserve.

Seungmin’s jaw clenches, his fingers curling over his knee like he’s physically holding himself back. “I mean it,” he says, voice flat, but there’s something simmering underneath, something sharp-edged. “Don’t joke about that.”

You don’t respond. Not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t. The lump in your throat has grown thick, suffocating.

Seungmin watches you for another moment, then exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Nineteen hours.” He says it like he’s reminding you, like he’s giving you the number so you can decide what to do with it. “You can make it to twenty.”

Your stomach lurches. You want to tell him that you can’t, that twenty feels just as impossible as twenty-four, as forty-eight, as forever. You want to tell him that you don’t even know why you called him last night, don’t know why you let him drag you home instead of finding a way to get what you needed.

But you don’t say anything.

You just press your fingers against your temples and breathe through the nausea.

Seungmin shifts in his chair, the legs scraping against the floor. You can feel his eyes on you, sharp and assessing. “You need water,” he says finally.

You shake your head. The thought alone makes you feel sick.

"Seungmin."

Your voice cracks, raw and barely above a whisper. But it stops him in his tracks.

He turns, hand still on the doorknob, brows pulling together just slightly. "What?"

You swallow hard, staring down at the blanket bunched in your lap, twisting your fingers into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. You feel stripped bare—exposed in a way that has everything to do with last night’s unraveling.

"Just—" You inhale sharply, pressing your lips together, hating the way your throat tightens. "Can you just… stay?"

The words feel small. Weak. And you hate that, too.

Then, with a sigh, he steps back into the room, kicking off his shoes as he moves toward you. "Move over."

You do. Barely. Just enough for him to slip onto the mattress beside you, his weight dipping the bed slightly. He settles in without hesitation, lying on top of the covers while you remain tucked beneath them.

It’s not weird. It never has been.

You’ve known Seungmin too long, been through too much together, for something like this to be anything but familiar. You’re practically family.

Still, when he shifts closer, when his arm slings loosely around your shoulder, something inside you cracks wide open.

"You scared me," he says eventually, voice quieter now.

Your eyes press shut. "I know."

Another beat. Then, "Don’t do that shit again."

You swallow past the lump in your throat. "Okay."

Neither of you move.

For now, this is enough.

The weight of exhaustion settles deeper into your bones, pressing you further into the mattress. Seungmin's warmth seeps through the layers of fabric between you, grounding in a way that nothing else has since last night. Since him. You exhale, slow and uneven, and Seungmin feels it—his grip around your shoulder tightening for just a second, a quiet reassurance he doesn’t put into words.

"Do you remember anything?" he asks eventually, voice softer than before.

Your fingers twitch against the blanket. "Some." A pause. "Not much."

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel the way his body tenses for a fraction of a second. "Changbin was looking for you before I found you."

Your stomach flips.

Your throat feels tight again, panic curling at the edges of your ribs. You don’t want to ask. Don’t want to know. But you do anyway.

"Did you tell him?"

Seungmin shifts beside you, chin brushing lightly against your hair as he adjusts. "No."

Relief and something bitter twist together inside you.

"He was worried," Seungmin adds after a moment. "Really worried."

You bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t want to hear that. Don’t want to think about what Changbin must’ve looked like when he realized you were gone. The hurt that must’ve flickered across his face, the frustration that would’ve quickly followed. Seungmin shifts again, this time pulling back slightly so he can glance down at you. "You gonna talk to him?"

You hesitate.

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, nails pressing into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

"I don’t know," you admit, voice small.

Seungmin doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scoff—just watches you, eyes sharp, waiting. You can feel the weight of his gaze even without looking.

"You can’t avoid him forever," he says eventually. "You know that, right?"

"I’m not—" You cut yourself off, because you are. You absolutely are.

Seungmin shifts beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. "He was losing his shit last night," he says, blunt as ever. "Like, full-on panicked."

Your stomach twists.

"He kept asking where you went, if anyone had seen you leave. It was fucking sad, honestly."

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your expression neutral, but Seungmin sees right through you. He always does.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling like he’s picking his next words carefully. You can feel his presence beside you, steady and sure, the way it’s always been.

"You know," he starts, voice quieter now, "I used to think you and Changbin were good together."

Your stomach clenches.

Seungmin doesn’t look at you, just continues like he’s thinking out loud. "I mean, I don’t think I ever told you that. But I did. You balanced each other out, you know? He made you laugh in a way you never let yourself. And you—" He exhales, shaking his head slightly. "You softened him in a way no one else could."

Your fingers twist into the blanket. You don’t want to hear this. Not now. Not after everything.

"It wasn’t enough," you say, barely above a whisper.

Seungmin finally glances at you. "You sure about that?"

You force out a hollow laugh. "We broke up, didn’t we?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"You broke up with him."

The words hit harder than you expect. You knew they were coming, knew that was the truth, but hearing them out loud makes your throat tighten.

You swallow. "It was for the best."

Seungmin scoffs. "For who?"

"For him," you snap before you can stop yourself.

Seungmin blinks, caught off guard by the sharpness of your voice. You press your lips together, exhaling through your nose, trying to reel yourself back in.

He doesn’t push. Just watches you for a moment, eyes sharp, searching. "Is that really what you think?"

You don’t answer. Because if you do, you’ll have to admit it.

That you left because you were scared. That you left because you felt too much, and it made you sick, made you restless, made you want to run before he could run first.

Because Seungmin is right. Changbin never left. You did.

"You were happy with him," Seungmin says after a moment, voice softer now.

Your chest tightens. "I thought I was."

"You were," he insists. "You just didn’t know how to let yourself believe it."

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "It wouldn’t have lasted."

Seungmin doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t agree, either. Instead, he says, "Do you remember when he stayed outside your apartment that night?"

You cringe, shame curling deep in your gut at the memory.

Seungmin shifts beside you. "After you ended things. He came over. He wanted to fix it, but you wouldn’t open the door. So he just... sat there. For hours." He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "Hyunjin had to drag him back home. Said he wouldn’t stop crying."

Your heart clenches so tightly it hurts.

You remember that night. You remember sitting on the other side of the door, knees pulled to your chest, fingers pressed against your lips to keep in the sobs. You remember wanting to reach for the handle, to take it all back, to tell him you were sorry.

But you didn’t.

And now here you are, running all over again.

"You still love him, don’t you?" Seungmin’s voice is quiet, careful. Like he already knows the answer.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. "It doesn’t matter."

"It does," he counters. "And you know it."

Seungmin’s words settle into the silence, heavy and immovable. You want to argue, to deny it, to pretend that it’s not still clawing at your chest—but what’s the point? He sees right through you. He always has.

You press the heel of your palm against your forehead, eyes squeezing shut. “Even if I do, it doesn’t change anything.”

Seungmin exhales sharply through his nose. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll ruin it.” The words slip out before you can stop them, unfiltered and raw, and the moment they do, you wish you could shove them back down.

Seungmin goes still. And then, softer, “You really think that?”

You let out a hollow laugh, tilting your head back against the headboard. “Seungmin. Look at me. Look at the shit I do.” Your fingers twist into the blanket again, as if holding onto something tangible will stop you from unraveling completely. “I push people away. I fuck things up before they can fall apart on their own. And I don’t—” Your voice falters, throat tightening. “I don’t know how to be what he needs.”

A pause. Then—

“And what exactly does he need?” Seungmin asks.

You stare at him, frustrated. “Something steady. Something good. Something I’m not.”

Seungmin’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his gaze softens, just slightly. “That’s bullshit,” he says simply.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shifts so he’s fully facing you now, arms still folded over his chest. “You act like you’re some kind of walking disaster, like you’re incapable of being loved, but that’s not true.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unrelenting. “You love harder than anyone I know. You just don’t let yourself believe that people could love you the same way.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I—”

“You didn’t leave because you thought you weren’t good for him,” Seungmin cuts in. “You left because you were scared he was good for you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs.

Because it’s true, isn’t it?

Your throat is tight, chest aching in a way that feels too raw to touch. You don’t trust yourself to speak, don’t trust your voice not to crack under the weight of everything Seungmin is forcing you to confront.

For a long moment, neither of you say anything. The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on your nightstand.

Then, quietly, Seungmin sighs. “You know, I don’t usually get involved in this kind of shit,” he mutters, leaning his head back against the headboard. “I figure people are gonna do what they want, and it’s not my job to fix their messes.”

You glance at him warily. “But?”

“But,” he says, leveling you with a look, “I think you’re being an idiot.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “Yeah. I got that.”

Seungmin shakes his head. “I mean it. You can keep pretending you don’t care. You can keep running, keep convincing yourself that this is just the way you are.” His voice lowers, softer but no less firm. “Or you can do something about it.”

You swallow. “And if I don’t?”

Seungmin shrugs. “Then you keep living like this. Keep pretending you don’t miss him. Keep waking up in beds that don’t feel right. Keep feeling like shit every time you see him with someone else, wondering if maybe, just maybe, that could’ve still been you.”

You exhale shakily, pressing your fingers against your temples.

“I’m just saying.” Seungmin nudges your shoulder lightly, voice dipping back into something a little more familiar, a little less weighted. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

A weak laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Fuck off.”

Seungmin grins. “There she is.”

The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted entirely, but it feels a little less suffocating now. Like maybe, just maybe, you can breathe through it.

You sit with that for a moment, the quiet between you no longer sharp, no longer something that threatens to choke you.

Then, hesitantly, you murmur, “What if I don’t know how to fix it?”

Seungmin doesn’t hesitate. “Then start by telling him the truth.”

You lick your lips, voice dry and unsteady. “I don’t think that’s enough.”

Seungmin exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Then stop making excuses and figure out what is.”

His voice is firm but not unkind. It’s the way he’s always spoken to you—like he’s giving you just enough space to mess up, but never enough to let you completely self-destruct. And right now, you think he might be the only person willing to call you out for exactly what you are.

You rub a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Seungmin is quiet for a beat. Then, “Get clean.”

Your breath catches. “Seungmin—”

“No.” He looks at you, gaze sharp, unwavering. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I don’t see it. The way you drink. The shit you take just to keep your head quiet.” He tilts his head, studying you. “You think Changbin didn’t notice?”

Your stomach twists.

You’ve spent so long convincing yourself you were good at hiding it. That the late nights, the pills, the drinks, the desperate need to fill the empty spaces—you thought it was subtle enough to slip by.

But maybe it never was.

Maybe that was just another lie you told yourself to make it easier to keep running.

Seungmin leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. “If you want to fix things with him, if you actually want to try, you need to stop doing this shit to yourself.” He gestures vaguely at you, at the room, at all of it. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna keep hurting yourself. And worse? You’re gonna hurt him, too.”

Your throat feels tight. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” Seungmin says, and this time, there’s no bite to it. Just quiet understanding. “But you will.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Because the truth is, you’ve already hurt him. Over and over again. You saw the way he looked at you before you left, the way his hands trembled when he reached for you and you stepped back.

And still, you left.

You exhale shakily, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I don’t know if I can.”

Seungmin doesn’t let up. “Then figure it out. Because if you go back to him like this? You’re just gonna break him all over again.”

You swallow hard, hands shaking in your lap. He’s right. He’s so fucking right, and you hate him for it.

But mostly, you hate yourself.

For letting it get this bad.

For not stopping sooner.

For not being the kind of person Changbin deserved to love.

For the first time in a long time, you feel something crack deep in your chest, something that’s been locked up tight behind all the bullshit excuses you’ve been feeding yourself.

You meet Seungmin’s gaze, eyes burning. “What if I try and I still fuck it up?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Then at least you’ll know you actually tried.”

You stare at him, at the boy who has somehow never given up on you despite all the reasons he should. And then, finally, you nod.

It’s small. It’s hesitant.

But it’s real.

And that’s enough.

For a moment, at least.

Then the panic starts creeping back in—the gnawing, clawing kind that tightens around your throat and makes your skin itch with something worse than withdrawal. If you wait too long, you won’t do it. You know yourself. You’ll convince yourself it’s not worth it, that it’s better this way, that you’ll just end up ruining him more.

If you don’t go to Changbin now, you never will.

So you move.

You push the blanket off and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the way the room spins violently around you. Your body protests immediately—your muscles scream, your stomach clenches, your skin feels feverish and too tight all at once—but you grit your teeth and stand anyway.

Or, you try to.

Because Seungmin is there, shoving you right back down before you even get a chance to take a step.

“No.”

Your head jerks up. He looks pissed—more than pissed. His jaw is clenched, his grip firm where he holds your shoulder

Your whole body tenses. “If I don’t do it now, I won’t do it at all.”

“And if you collapse on his doorstep, what then?” His grip is firm, but not unkind. His voice, though, is sharp. “You can barely fucking stand, let alone have a conversation with him that doesn’t end with you making it worse.”

He gestures at you—at the way your whole body is trembling, at the sweat glistening at your hairline, at the way your legs are barely holding you up. “You think you’re gonna show up at his place like this and suddenly everything will be fine? That you’ll say some magic fucking words and he’ll just forgive you?”

Seungmin sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted. Like he’s been fighting a battle he never asked to be a part of.

“Just give yourself a few hours,” he says, voice quieter now. “Let your body catch up first. Then you can go.”

It’s a compromise. One that you should take.

So you do.

You let yourself fall back against the pillows, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You don’t speak. Neither does Seungmin. He just stays there, silent, like he’s waiting for you to finally pass out.

You don’t. You can’t. Every nerve in your body is on fire, the restlessness so overwhelming it makes your skin feel too tight. You shift constantly, fingers twitching against the fabric of the blanket, but Seungmin doesn’t say anything about it.

At some point, though, he falls asleep.

You wait.

And then, once you’re sure he’s out, you move.

You push the blanket off, biting down on your lip to keep from groaning as your muscles scream in protest. Every inch of your body feels like it’s been wrung out, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but you force yourself up anyway.

The clock reads 4:12 AM as you slip out the door.

Seungmin doesn’t wake.

And you don’t stop.

____________________________________________________________________________

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Changbin blinks at you, slow and disoriented, sleep still clinging to the edges of his expression. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and there’s a crease pressed into his cheek from his pillow. He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand braced against the doorframe as he takes you in.

Then, his gaze sharpens.

His lips press into a thin line, his posture stiffening, the warmth of sleep fading into something more guarded. He looks you over once, eyes scanning your face, your trembling hands, the way you’re barely standing upright. He exhales sharply through his nose.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Your stomach twists. “Changbin—”

“Do you even know what time it is?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, rough and worn down. Not sharp enough to cut—but enough to bruise.

“I had to come.” Your voice is hoarse, barely audible over the hammering of your pulse.

He scoffs, running a hand down his face. “Of course you did.” He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “You high?”

You shake your head. “No.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicking down to your hands—shaking, white-knuckled around the sleeves of your hoodie. You force them still, gripping the fabric harder.

“I’m not,” you repeat, firmer this time. “I swear.”

A long silence stretches between you, thick and weighted, the kind that sinks deep into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Changbin steps back. “Get inside.”

The warmth of his apartment is suffocating after the bite of the cold, the air thick with the lingering heat of sleep. It smells like him—like cedarwood and clean laundry, like something steady, something safe—but all it does is make your chest ache harder.

You don’t belong here. Not anymore.

Still, you step inside.

The door clicks shut behind you, a finality that rattles in your bones. You swallow hard as Changbin moves past you, his steps slow, deliberate. The kitchen faucet runs, the sound too loud in the quiet, and then he’s back, pressing a glass of water into your shaking hands.

His fingers brush yours—brief, fleeting—but it sends something sharp through your veins.

“Drink,” he murmurs.

You do, even as your stomach twists around the effort, even as the words start bubbling up before you can stop them.

“I—” Your voice catches, raw and unsteady. You clear your throat, grip tightening around the glass. “I’m sorry.”

Changbin exhales through his nose, slow and measured. He doesn’t respond.

You can’t stop. “I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, and I never wanted to.” The words stumble out, rushed and uneven, spilling into the space between you like water slipping through cracks. “I don’t—I don’t even know how to fix it, but I—”

Your breath hitches. The words pile up in your throat, heavy and unwieldy, choking you from the inside out. Your hands shake harder, fingers tightening around the glass until your knuckles burn.

Changbin watches you, jaw tense, but his eyes aren’t hard. They aren’t angry. They’re searching, flickering with something unreadable, something softer than you deserve.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Your pulse is too loud in your ears. The room tilts. The air feels too thick, your lungs struggling to expand around it.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing—don’t register the way your nails dig into your palms, how sharp the pain has become—until Changbin’s hand wraps around your wrist.

“Hey.” His voice is low, steady. His thumb brushes over your skin, a grounding pressure. "Stop."

You blink, dazed, following his gaze down to where your fists are clenched so tightly that blood has begun to bead at the crescent-shaped wounds in your palms.

Your stomach lurches.

“I—” You try to let go, but your muscles refuse to cooperate, your fingers locked in place.

Changbin sighs, his grip gentle but firm as he pries your hands open. He doesn’t say anything—just guides you toward his bed, easing you to sit at the edge before crouching in front of you.

The mattress dips beneath you, its familiar give grounding you in a way your own body refuses to. The room still tilts at the edges of your vision, nausea pressing sharp against your ribs, but Changbin doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm, steady, his fingers wrapped around your wrists as if to keep you from slipping through his grasp entirely.

You watch, breath unsteady, as he releases you just long enough to disappear into the bathroom. The distant rustling of cabinets, the quiet pop of a cap being unscrewed—then he’s back, first aid kit in hand, expression unreadable.

The soft click of plastic echoes in the stillness as he kneels in front of you, his movements deliberate, careful. He doesn’t speak as he takes your hand again, doesn’t chide you, doesn’t ask why—he just begins cleaning the wounds, swiping a cool antiseptic wipe across your palm with excruciating gentleness.

You flinch. His grip tightens, but not to hold you still—just to remind you that he’s there.

"Relax," he murmurs.

You try. Try to breathe through the sting, try to focus on the warmth of his hands rather than the sharp bite of antiseptic against broken skin. But the moment feels too fragile, too raw, and you don’t know how to exist in it without unraveling entirely.

Your throat works around the lump forming there. “I didn’t mean to.” The words slip out before you can stop them, hoarse and barely above a whisper.

His fingers still against your skin. He exhales, slow and measured, before resuming his careful work. “I know.”

You’re trembling.

Changbin feels it beneath his hands—the fine, uncontrollable shakes that run through your fingers, up your arms, curling around your shoulders like something too heavy to carry alone. He doesn’t know if it’s from the pain, the exhaustion, or something deeper, something far worse.

Maybe all of it at once.

His chest tightens. He’s known you for years, long enough to recognize the weight you carry, the way you pretend it’s nothing. He’s seen you angry, reckless, sharp-edged and self-destructive. He’s seen you laugh through pain, spit out sarcasm like it’s a shield, convince the world that nothing can touch you.

But he has never—not once—seen you cry.

So when your breath shudders, when your fingers tighten in his, when your face crumples, it hits him like a fist to the gut.

It starts slow—just a hitch in your breath, a slight tremble in your lips. Then your eyes squeeze shut, and the first tear slips free, carving a silent path down your cheek. Another follows. Then another.

Changbin’s stomach drops.

“Hey,” he breathes, barely realizing he’s moving until he’s shifting onto the mattress beside you. He doesn’t let go of your hands, doesn’t even think about it—just stays close, as if anchoring you in place.

But you shake your head, ducking your head to hide behind your hair, shoulders carving into yourself, like you’re embarrassed to be breaking apart in front of him.

That’s what gets him. The way you’re trying so hard to hold it in, like you think you have to.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. He reaches up, hesitates for a split second before brushing his fingers against your cheekbone, coaxing your gaze to his. “It’s okay.”

You let out a sharp, broken breath, and his heart clenches so tight for a moment, he’s the one that can’t breath.

He’s helpless against it—the sight of you unraveling, the sound of your quiet, choked sobs. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say that won’t sound useless in the face of whatever’s eating you alive.

So he just does the only thing that makes sense.

He pulls you in.

His arms circle around you, firm but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he holds too tight. A sob tears its way out of you, muffled against his bare shoulder, and it nearly floors him. He tightens his hold instinctively, hand cradling the back of your head, anchoring you as best he can while the weight of everything presses down. He knows then that you could continue pushing him away for the rest of your lives, tear his heart into pieces like you did the day you broke up with him and he would still be here, still be holding you like this if you ever needed him again like the damn fool he was.

The realization settles deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable—he will always come back to you.

You don’t speak. You just stay there, curled into him, hands gripping his hoodie like you need something—someone—to hold you together.

Changbin doesn’t move, doesn’t dare breathe too deep in case it startles you, in case it reminds you of the space you should be putting between you instead of closing it. Instead, he just presses his chin lightly against the top of your head and listens—to your uneven breaths, to the tiny, shuddering inhales that barely make it past your lips.

It takes a long time for your breathing to even out, for the tension in your body to start seeping away. Even longer for your fingers to unclench, for the weight against him to settle, growing heavier, more still.

He tilts his head just slightly, catching a glimpse of your face where it’s tucked into his shoulder. Your lashes are damp, cheeks still streaked with the remnants of your breakdown—but your features have softened, lips parted as sleep tugs you under.

Something in him pulls tight.

He knows you—knows that sleep doesn't come easy for you on a good day, let alone like this. But now, wrapped up in his arms, your body is giving in. You trust him enough, even now, to let go like this. To rest.

It shouldn’t make his chest ache the way it does. Shouldn’t make him feel like holding onto you for as long as he can, even knowing that morning will come, that you’ll wake up and everything will still be broken. That the walls will go back up, the distance will return.

But for now—just for now—he lets himself be selfish.

Carefully, he shifts, tightening one arm around you as he maneuvers you gently onto the mattress. You murmur something in your sleep, brow twitching like you might stir, and he stills, waiting, breath shallow. But then you sigh, sinking deeper into the bed, the tension in your face easing again.

He exhales, moving slowly as he reaches down, carefully slipping off your shoes. The laces are damp from the cold outside, your socks barely warm enough to fend it off. He makes a mental note to find a spare blanket, something heavier, something that will keep you warm.

He tugs the comforter over you, tucking it lightly around your shoulders.

Then, he just—pauses.

Standing there, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitch slightly against the fabric.

You have a long way to go.

There are things you both need to say, things you can’t keep burying under silence and unshed tears. This—whatever it is—can’t stay suspended in fragile moments like this forever.

But right now, that doesn’t matter.

Right now, you’re here.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

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