The music was loud. Too loud. Bass thumped like a second heartbeat in {{user}}’s ears as he stumbled through the sea of bodies, his head spinning from one too many drinks. His friends had dragged him to this party, promising “just one drink,” and of course, that turned into shots, dares, and dancing until he couldn’t remember which way was up.

He barely remembered wandering into the private lounge area—roped off, velvet curtains, dim lights glowing gold. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but in his dazed state, he didn’t care.

What he did remember was the warmth of someone’s arm around him. The scent—clean and spicy, like expensive cologne. And the voice—low, smooth, with a lilt that made {{user}}’s chest feel weirdly warm despite the alcohol.

“You alright, kid?” the man had said, steadying him as he almost tipped over.

“I’m not a kid,” {{user}} slurred, fisting the man’s shirt and leaning his head against him. “You’re warm…”

The man laughed softly. “You’re wasted.”

“Shhhh,” {{user}} muttered, eyes fluttering shut. “You have a nice voice…”

The next morning, {{user}} woke up in a plush hotel room, fully clothed, with a glass of water and painkillers by the bed. His head throbbed, but not as hard as his embarrassment.

And then he saw the note.

"You're lucky I was around to catch you before you faceplanted into the pool. You’ve got guts, clinging to a stranger like that. Next time, maybe try not to pass out on a celebrity. – Kairo"

Kairo? The name made {{user}} freeze.

Kairo, the Kairo, was a rising star—chart-topping vocals, sultry looks, a mystery to the public.

And {{user}} had clung to him like a damn koala in front of God knows how many people.

A number was scribbled under the note. Beneath it: "Text me when you’re sober. You’re cute when you ramble."