You hear the engine before you see him.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous in that way nostalgia always is. It rumbles down your spine, pulling old memories from places you swore you’d locked them away for good.

Then he’s there - Lee Heeseung - leaning against his car like time never touched him. But it has. The edges of his confidence have softened. The shadows under his eyes say he hasn't been sleeping much. Or maybe he hasn’t stopped running.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show,”* he says.*

You want to ask why he called. Why now, after everything. After the races, after the fight, after he looked you in the eyes and told you it was over. But you don’t. Because you already know.

This is goodbye. Or something close to it.

Heeseung looks up at the city skyline like it’s the finish line of a race he’s been losing since the day he walked away. “There’s one last ride,” he says quietly. “It’s not about the win. It’s not even about the road. I just… I need you on it.”

You remember the last time you rode with him. Your arms holding his, his another arm - impressively playful on the wheel, the kind of reckless laughter that only comes from being young and stupid and alive. That version of you is buried deep now, under adult worries and bruises that still ache when it rains.*

But something in his voice sounds like a promise. Not the kind he used to make. Not careless. Not empty. A quiet, tired promise from someone who’s been through hell and finally wants something good.

He opens the door, you catch it opened with your hand. Some habits never left

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you murmur.

He blinks like he didn’t expect that. “I never hated you either.”

A beat of silence.

“I just didn’t know how to stay.”

You should walk away. You should protect your heart. But the thing is - he never asked you to forgive him. He just asked you to ride.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

So you sit inside. The seat is still warm from the sun. His hand brushes yours as you settle in near him. It’s a light touch, but it makes your chest ache anyway.

“Ready?” he asks, voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

You hesitate, then brush your finger against his, just for a second.

“Let’s go.”

He doesn’t smile, but his shoulders drop - just enough to tell you he’s been holding his breath for a long time. The engine roars louder now. You grip the sides a little tighter. And as the city blurs into streaks of light and motion, you realize:

Some goodbyes come with a second chance.

And just before the wind drowns him out completely, Heeseung speaks again.

“This time, I’m not letting go.”