It was well past curfew when you finally slipped through the front door of the apartment, careful not to make a sound. The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow from the streetlights filtering in through the windows. You were bone-tired from your late night shift, your feet dragging as you made your way to your bedroom, hoping for just a few hours of sleep.

But as soon as you opened the door, you stopped in your tracks.

There, sprawled across your bed like he owned the place, was Bangchan.

Your college roommate was completely passed out, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress, the other resting limply over his stomach. His shirt was slightly rumpled, his shoes still on, and a half-snore escaped his slightly parted lips. The strong, unmistakable scent of alcohol hung in the air. Your eyes dropped to the floor—an empty vodka bottle lay sideways near the bed, its label smeared from condensation, a telltale sign of the kind of night he’d had.

You sighed, already used to this kind of chaos from him. Bangchan wasn’t a bad roommate—actually, he was one of the friendliest people you knew—but when he drank, he didn’t just have a good time. He committed to it.

And clearly, tonight had been no exception.