skz—bangchan

The storm had been growing since the ride back, but in the kitchen of the apartment you shared with Chan, it pressed closer than ever. Rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drum that made the room feel smaller, tighter, charged. The countertops gleamed faintly under the dim light, and the kettle on the stove hissed quietly, almost lost beneath the storm and your own rising tension.

It had begun with a single line, careless and sharp.

“You looked lost in that interview,” he said, voice flat from fatigue. “You can’t afford that.”

Just that, and it hit harder than it should have. You were tired—drained from hours of performing, of smiling through questions, of holding yourself together—and his words found the place where you were already raw.

“Why do you always have to point out what I do wrong?” you snapped, your chest tightening.

His gaze lifted, unblinking, patient at first. “Because it matters. People notice.”

The next moments were something neither of you had ever done before. Your words spilled over, urgent and uneven, sharper than usual. Hands gesturing wildly, pacing a few steps between the fridge and the counter. He leaned against the counter opposite you, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes wary. His usual calm was gone; the patience he always carried had thinned to a fragile line.

The argument unfolded not in sentences, but in movements and silences. A slammed palm on the countertop, a sharp inhale, a step back, the way your shoulders trembled with frustration. He mirrored some of it—a tightening around his mouth, fists clenching briefly at his sides, a shift in stance that said he was just as tired, just as worn, just as aware that this was spiraling. Words had become secondary to the tension coiling in the air, and the weight of everything—the expectations, the fatigue, the unspoken pressure—pressed down harder than either of you had expected.