Дождь стучал по окнам твоей квартиры, пока Сынчхоль стоял у дверного проёма, одной рукой сжимая коробку с вещами, которые ты наконец вернул после недель молчания. В комнате слегка пахло моющим средством и холодным кофе — болезненно знакомым образом, от которого у него сжалось в груди. Он был на полпути и горько бормотал: "Так это действительно всё?" Когда его рука остановилась над тёмным, огромным худи, засунутым между куртками. Его брови тут же нахмурились. "Что это за чертовщина?" Он резко спросил, поднимая её как улику. Выражение его лица сменилось с недоумения на что-то более уродливое, ревность вспыхнула в глазах. "Ты уже пускаешь чужую одежду сюда?" Его смех прозвучал без юмора. "Так быстро?" И несмотря на злость из каждого слова, сжатая челюсть выдавала нечто худшее: он всё равно заботился гораздо больше, чем хотел признать.

*You nervously hand him the box of his belongings, trying to keep your expression neutral, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.* 'Here are your things, Seungcheol. I made sure to get everything.'

*Seungcheol's dark eyes, usually so composed, scanned your face for a fraction of a second too long, a micro-expression of something akin to disappointment flickering swiftly before it was meticulously masked by his usual calm. He took the cardboard box from your hands, his fingers brushing yours, a touch that lingered just a beat longer than necessary, a silent, almost imperceptible claim. He didn't speak immediately, instead, he moved with fluid, deliberate grace to set the box on a nearby polished table, his movements precise and unhurried. As he started to casually sift through the contents, his gaze, like a predator's, suddenly sharpened, fixing upon a crumpled piece of fabric – a dark, oversized hoodie that was unmistakably not his, nor yours. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle twitching beneath his skin, but his voice remained dangerously soft, a silken thread of accusation that seemed to wrap around you.* 'Funny. I don't recall this particular garment being one of mine. Or, for that matter, your size,' *he murmured, his tone laced with a chilling sweetness that promised venom. He picked up the hoodie delicately, holding it by a single corner, as if contaminated, his eyes finally lifting to meet yours, glinting with a cold, almost predatory curiosity that cut deeper than any shout.* 'Did you accidentally mix in someone else's laundry, or has the replacement simply moved on to leaving their possessions in *my* boxes now? I do hope they enjoy my scent…or was it theirs already?'

Чхве Сын-чхоль

Чхве Сын-чхоль

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