The sting on my cheek lingered, not just from her slap but from the weight of the entire room's judgment. I could feel their eyes on me, whispers curling through the smoky air like invisible chains tying me to that moment. I didn't know her. I didn't know her name, her story, or why she'd chosen me as the target of her performance.

But somehow, it still hurt.

I stared at the glass in front of me, the amber liquid swirling as my unsteady hand tried to pour another drink. The warmth in my face wasn't just from the slap; it was from the embarrassment that crept under my skin, settling in like an unwelcome guest. My jaw ached from clenching, the tension radiating up to my temples.

And then there was him.

"Hyung."

The voice was sharp, low, and familiar—familiar enough to pull me out of my drunken haze but not enough to keep me from ignoring it.

"What?" I muttered, barely lifting my head.

Namjoon didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. I could feel the disapproval radiating off him like heat from a fire, burning me without a single word. My stomach churned, part alcohol, part guilt, and part the relentless frustration of knowing I'd screwed up again.

His footsteps were deliberate as he approached, heavy against the sticky wooden floor. My vision blurred as I tried to focus on the bottle in my hand, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. He loomed beside me, the weight of his presence pressing down on me like a vice.

"You've done enough," his silence said, louder than any words.

I tipped the glass back, the whiskey burning a path down my throat as I drained it in one go. My hand trembled slightly as I set it down, and I cursed under my breath.

Namjoon's hand reached out, steady and unyielding, and snatched the bottle from my grip before I could pour another.

"Don't," I growled, my voice low and dangerous.

He didn't flinch. He never flinched. His face was carved from stone, his jaw tight and his eyes flickering with barely restrained anger. He didn't say anything—he didn't need to. The bottle disappeared from my sight, and I let out a bitter laugh, the sound cracking in the stale air between us.

"What, you're my babysitter now?" I muttered, my words slurring as I swayed in my chair.

Namjoon's gaze didn't falter. His shoulders were tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't going to argue with me. He wasn't even going to dignify my drunken tirade with a response.

"Fine," I snapped, pushing myself up from the chair. Or at least, I tried to. The room tilted violently, and I stumbled, my knees buckling as my body betrayed me.

Namjoon caught me before I hit the floor, his grip firm as he hauled me upright. His silence was heavier now, like he couldn't trust himself to speak without unleashing the full force of his frustration.

"Why do you even care?" I slurred, my voice cracking as he slung my arm over his shoulder. "Just let me fall. Let me—"

He cut me off with a sharp tug, dragging me toward the door without glancing back at the scene I'd left behind. The murmur of the bar faded into the background as the cool night air hit me, sobering but not enough.

I stumbled against him, my legs barely cooperating, my head spinning from a toxic mix of alcohol and self-loathing. Namjoon didn't say a word. His grip was bruising, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

I looked up at him—his face a mask of tightly controlled anger—and felt the shame settle deeper. He wasn't just angry at me. He was disappointed.

The car door slammed shut behind me, ringing in my ears. I slumped against the seat, my head lolling back as the engine roared to life. Namjoon's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, every movement tense and deliberate.

He didn't look at me. He didn't speak.

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the small space. "You think this is new?" I muttered, more to myself than to him. "You think I don't know what I'm doing?"

Namjoon's silence was deafening. It was a wall I couldn't climb, a barrier I couldn't break. He wasn't going to humor me. He wouldn't absolve me of the mess I'd created—not tonight.

The stranger's face flashed in my mind again—those wild, accusing eyes, her trembling hands, the way she'd spat those words like venom.

"You used me. You don't get to act clueless."

I let out a shaky breath, the sound cracking under the weight of everything I couldn't say.

Namjoon's grip on the wheel tightened, the tension radiating off him in waves. His anger was quiet but palpable, a silent rebuke that cut deeper than any words could.

The car rolled to a stop, and I didn't bother lifting my head to see where we were. Namjoon opened the door on my side, his movements sharp and precise as he hauled me out of the seat.

"Thanks," I mumbled, the word barely audible.

He didn't respond. He didn't even look at me as he guided me inside, his grip firm but devoid of the warmth he usually carried.

The silence stretched between us as he dropped me onto the couch, his movements stiff and mechanical. He didn't linger. He didn't wait for me to say anything else.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone.

The sting on my cheek flared again, a dull ache that matched the one in my chest.

I leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as the room spun around me.

If only she knew.