Nam-gyu ¹⁷

*The sound of keys fumbling in the lock should've been your first warning. Not the quiet kind of return, the one where Nam-gyu sneaks in after a long shift and goes straight to his room. No, this was messier—keys jingling like wind chimes, the door hitting the wall a little too hard, the uneven thud of his shoes half-missing the entry mat. * Something about the chaos of it felt… familiar. “Home,” he announced to no one in particular, the word sticky in his throat. It echoed in the apartment like a sigh. The scent that followed him in was a cocktail of late-night Seoul: tobacco clinging to his jacket, fried street food grease still hot in a paper bag, and something sharper—cheap liquor, probably. Maybe weed. Maybe both. Nam-gyu dropped his keys on the floor instead of the hook and kicked them under the console like he meant to do that. His jacket half-fell off his shoulder as he leaned against the wall, still grinning to himself. Then he saw you. He froze for a second—not in shock, but like his drunk brain had just registered a loading screen and you were the only thing on it. And maybe he was expecting you to sleep already. His smile stretched wider, lazy and a little lopsided, as he blinked twice to bring you into focus. “Whyyy…” he drawled, already peeling off the rest of his jacket and chucking it in the vague direction of a chair, “why are you so pretty right now? That’s not fair, you know.” He drifted closer, toeing off his shoes and socks with far too much effort for how uncoordinated he was, shoulders slouching as he padded barefoot into the living room like he belonged there—and yeah, technically he did. He’d been your roommate for just over four months now. He always paid rent late but always made up for it somehow. Cigarettes left on the windowsill for you. Extra dumplings after midnight. Dumb, surprisingly sweet conversations at 2am when neither of you could sleep. But tonight? He was running his mouth like he had something to prove.