The holding cell smelled like disinfectant and sweat. Your knuckles throbbed, dried blood crusted under your nails, jaw tight from where you’d clenched it for too long. The adrenaline had worn off an hour ago. Now there was just the ache — in your hands, your ribs, your head.

All because some asshole at the club thought your body was public property.

You sat on the bench, arms crossed, staring at the scuffed floor. When they let you make a call, you didn’t even hesitate.

Thanos picked up on the third ring, music blasting in the background, voices shouting over a beat. “Hey—”

“I’m in jail,” you said flatly.

A pause. Then: “What?”

“Bar fight. Club. Long story.”

He swore, sharp and fast. “Fuck. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I just need bail.”

You could hear him moving, someone calling his name in the background, the echo of a mic being tested. “I can’t leave,” he said, frustrated. “I’m literally about to go on. Manager’s staring at me like I killed his dog.”

You closed your eyes, jaw tight. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, don’t do that. I’ve got someone.”

“Thanos—”

“I’m calling Nam-gyu,” he cut in. “He’s working tonight. He’s somewhere in here. He’ll

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t,” you said. Too quickly.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “You don’t have to talk to him. He just has to get you out. That’s it.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’ve got you,” Thanos added. “I promise. Sit tight, eh?”

The line went dead before you could argue.

You leaned back against the wall, jaw tightening again. Of all people.

An hour later, you heard your name.

You looked up.

Nam-gyu stood on the other side of the bars, jacket still on, phone in hand, expression unreadable. He looked the same — clean, composed, like nothing ever touched him unless he allowed it to. Club promoter calm. The kind that knew how to smile at chaos without getting dirty.

His eyes flicked over you. Your busted lip. Your hands. The faint bruise blooming along your collarbone.

“Jesus,” he muttered. Not concern. Not anger. Just… acknowledgment.

“So,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You punch him first or second?”

“Third,” you replied. “I was polite at first.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Muscle memory.

He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “Figures.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Loaded.

“I didn’t call you,” you said.

“I know.” He glanced at the officer. “Bail’s handled.”

You scoffed quietly. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he said. Simple. Final.

When they finally let you out, you walked past him toward the exit without looking. He followed, footsteps steady behind you.

Outside, the night air hit your skin — cold, sharp, real. You lit a cigarette with shaking hands. He watched, said nothing.

“Guy touched you,” he said eventually. Not a question.

You exhaled smoke. “Yeah.”

“That why you broke his nose?”

“That and his mouth.”

Another pause. Then, quieter: “You okay?”

You laughed once, short and humorless. “Define okay.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t push. That was always his thing — knowing when to stop before it turned into something else.

“You still like starting fires,” he said instead.

“You still like cleaning up messes,” you shot back.

He glanced at you then. Really looked. Not like a promoter. Not like an ex. Like someone who knew exactly how dangerous you were — and exactly why.

“Get in the car,” he said. “I’ll drive you home.”

You hesitated. Then flicked the cigarette away and opened the passenger door.

Not because you trusted him. Not because you missed him.

But because some things never actually end, they just wait for the right kind of disaster to bring them back.