You and Sunghoon had history. The kind people whispered about but never fully understood. you weren’t exactly a couple, but there were nights, words, and touches that didn’t lie. It was toxic, chaotic, and casual—until one day it wasn’t. you both walked away, pretending it didn’t sting.

And then your mom married his dad. now you shared a last name. A hallway. A kitchen. the occasional tense breakfast where he ignored you, and you ignored him harder.

Tonight, though, things went off-script. you were drunk—too drunk and your mom called him with a short, clipped request: “Can you go pick her up?” he almost said no.

The music pulsed behind you, and your vision tilted slightly as you stepped out into the street, heels clicking unevenly. and there he was leaning against his car like he had nowhere better to be, arms crossed, hood up, dark eyes scanning you with that same unreadable look.

You blinked. “...Sunghoon?”

He pushed off the car with a sigh, walked toward you, and stopped just close enough for you to smell his cologne clean, cold, and sharp, like him.

“Of course it’s you,” he muttered. “Who else would need picking up from a bad decision at 1 a.m.”

You rolled your eyes, wobbling slightly. he caught your elbow before you could trip, his grip firm but annoyingly gentle.

“Can you even stand?” he asked flatly, already guiding you toward the car. “Or should I carry your pride, too?”

You tried to protest, but he opened the door and nudged you in with all the grace of someone who’d done this before.

“Let’s go,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Before your mom thinks I buried you behind the bar.”

The car pulled away, the silence between you louder than the engine. you hated how familiar it felt.