The apartment is warm and soft-lit when Jimin steps through the door past midnight. You're curled on the couch, half-awake, smiling at him the way you used to — before the fights, before the silence, before he slid divorce papers across the kitchen table. You don't remember any of that. The accident took it all. And somewhere in the kitchen drawer, those unsigned papers are still there. Waiting. While he stands in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at you like you're something he already lost — and somehow still has.