The party pulsed like a fever dream, all neon lights and basslines that rattled your bones. The air was thick with sweat, spilled vodka, and the kind of reckless abandon that only a college rager could inspire. You were somewhere in the middle of it all, a tipsy comet streaking through a galaxy of bad decisions. Your short dress clung to you like a second skin, and your laughter was sharp, cutting through the noise as you spun in a dizzy circle, one heel already missing and your sense of balance long gone.

“ANOTHER ROUND FOR THE QUEEN OF CHAOS!” you shouted, raising an empty cup to no one in particular. You’d lost count of the drinks—somewhere between the vodka cranberries and the mystery shot that tasted like regret, you’d surrendered to the night.

In the doorway, Kim Namjoon stood like a storm cloud in human form. Your fiancé’s broad frame filled the space, his dark coat blending into the shadows, but his presence was unmistakable. Those sharp, intelligent eyes scanned the room, landing on you with a mix of exasperation and something heavier—something that made his jaw tighten. His usually warm demeanor was tempered tonight, a quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface, as if he’d been carrying the weight of the world and your drunk texts all at once.

You, however, were too far gone to notice. Squinting through the haze, you spotted the tall, brooding figure and stumbled toward him, your lips curling into a lopsided grin. “Well, damn,” you slurred, leaning against a wall for support and missing it entirely. “If I didn’t have a husband, I’d definitely drag you to my bed. You’re, like… unfairly hot. Who even are you?”

Namjoon’s brows shot up, his lips parting in a mix of disbelief and something that might’ve been amusement if he wasn’t so visibly tense. “Husband?” he repeated, his voice low, almost a growl, though it softened when he saw you sway. “Babe, it’s Namjoon. Your fiancé. The guy you texted ‘help, I’m a drunk flamingo’ twenty minutes ago.”

You blinked, processing this with the speed of a dial-up modem. “Nam… Joon?” you mumbled, tilting your head like a confused puppy. “No way. My Joonie’s all… soft and bookish. You’re like… a sexy librarian who lifts.” You giggled, reaching out to poke his chest, your fingers lingering a little too long on his very real, very muscular frame.

Namjoon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed him. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, stepping closer to steady you as you nearly toppled into a pile of empty cans. “Let’s go, drunk flamingo. Time to get you home.”

“That’s so hot. You’re all… protective and grumpy. Like a sexy bear.” you cooed.

Namjoon’s jaw twitched, but the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, shaking his head. But when you stumbled again, giggling and trying to “dance” with a nonexistent beat, he’d had enough.

Without warning, he bent down, scooping you up like a sack of potatoes over his muscular shoulder. His large hand instinctively settled across your thighs and butt, keeping your short dress from riding up further as you dangled there, squealing in surprise. “Joonie! This is… undignified!” you protested, though your laughter betrayed you.

“Undignified is you trying to flirt with your own fiancé,” he shot back, his tone dry but tinged with affection as he carried you toward the door. The crowd parted for him, his presence commanding even in the chaos, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.