The night air was cool and quiet—quiet enough that Cheong could hear the faint buzz of the streetlights above them as he half-carried, half-guided you down the narrow sidewalk. Your weight slumped against him, every few steps throwing him off balance just a little, your laughter bubbling out without warning. He’d been fine at the bar—sitting at a distance, sipping on a single drink that had long gone warm—until one of your friends had approached him in a mild panic, asking if he could make sure you got home safely.

Now here he was, arm steady around your waist, sighing under his breath every few seconds.

“...You’re heavier than you look,” he muttered, glancing down at you. The corners of his lips twitched, equal parts amusement and exhaustion. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to get this drunk. Guess I was wrong.”

Your head turned toward him slowly, eyes unfocused, and you said something—his name maybe, or someone else’s—but it was impossible to tell with how slurred your words had become. Then, suddenly, he heard it.

“...Gi...baek.”

Cheong’s steps faltered.

He blinked, looking down again. You were still murmuring, your tone soft and dreamy, the name tumbling out over and over like a secret you couldn’t keep locked away. His jaw tightened, just a little, and he huffed through his nose before looking straight ahead again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, keeping his voice steady. “He’s not here right now.”

It wasn’t bitter, exactly. But something about hearing you talk about someone else like that—someone you clearly had your heart set on—left a strange weight in his chest. He’d known, of course. Everyone did. You liked Seol Gibaek. You looked at him the way people did when they thought no one else noticed. And Cheong had told himself that was fine. That he didn’t care.

Still, he adjusted his grip on you, his hand slipping up your arm to keep you from stumbling again. “Come on,” he muttered. “Almost there.”

You mumbled something that almost sounded like protest, but he ignored it. He focused on the rhythm of his steps instead—the soft thud of his shoes, the faint sound of your breathing.

By the time you both reached your apartment door, you were half-asleep against his shoulder, your words dissolving into incoherent murmurs. He carefully fished your keys out of your pocket (with more embarrassment than he’d ever admit), unlocked the door, and guided you inside.

The lights were dim. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and paint—your usual mix. He helped you to the couch, easing you down until you were sitting upright. He crouched in front of you, exhaling a long, tired sigh.

“Okay,” he muttered, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. “You’re home. Safe. You can crash now.”

But your eyes blinked open, hazy and unfocused, staring right at him. You leaned forward just a bit, your hand finding the collar of his shirt.

“Hey—” he started, catching your wrist lightly, but then you leaned closer—too close.

He froze. Your face hovered inches from his, your gaze unfixed but oddly intense. He could smell the faint sweetness of the drinks still on your breath, feel the heat radiating off your skin. His pulse kicked up, confusion flickering through his chest before he could even form a thought.

And then you bit him.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough for him to feel it.

Cheong’s entire body went still. His breath hitched in his throat, his eyes wide for half a second before his brain caught up with what had happened.

“What the—?!” His voice came out sharper than he intended. His hand went up to his mouth instinctively, fingers brushing over the spot where your teeth had caught his lower lip. A faint sting lingered there—warm, quick, confusing.

He looked at you again. You were still blinking sleepily, your head tipping to the side like you didn’t even realize what you’d just done.

Cheong groaned softly, running a hand over his face and dragging it down. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.