Fuck—Fuck. Fuck.

The thrum of bass pulsed beneath the soles of your feet like a second heartbeat. Club Pentagon always buzzed this time of night—drunken laughter, shoes sticking to the floor, half-shouted drink orders. But behind the bar, it was oddly peaceful. You moved in rhythm: wipe the counter, pour the drink, slide it over. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sometimes, when the beat dropped just right, you’d catch yourself swaying a little, letting the music take you. It was a job, yeah, but there were worse gigs than pouring tequila for socialites too drunk to remember their own names.

Nam-gyu slid into his usual barstool like a shadow, chin resting on his hand, lazy smirk in place. “You look like you’re running a church, not a club,” he muttered, tapping the counter with two fingers. “Saint Bartender, bless me with a whiskey.”

You raised a brow. “You’re working, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” he muttered, looking around like he needed confirmation. “Don’t think my boss notices unless I stop posting flyers or let one of the dancers fall off the pole.”

You poured the drink anyway, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He was looser than usual. Not just tired—buzzed. It didn’t take long to put it together. Someone must’ve slipped him a few shots on the sly, or he helped himself while pretending to “network.” Either way, by 3:47 a.m., the floor had cleared, lights were flickering into something dim and warm, and Nam-gyu was practically a wet towel across the bar top. The last of the staff clocked out, leaving you with a very drunk, very unbothered Nam-gyu who gave zero shits that he was too gone to stand straight.

Dragging him to your car was an effort. He leaned against you like gravity was optional, muttering in your ear with hot breath and slurred consonants. “I hate this job,” he mumbled, one arm slung around your shoulders. “People think I like it. But I don’t. Hate it. Hate the crowd. Hate the music. Hate when girls touch me like I’m… like I’m something they paid for.”

You paused, readjusting your grip. “You can always quit.”

He ignored that. Or maybe didn’t hear. “I don’t even like half the people I talk to,” he slurred. “Except you. You’re… different. I mean. Shit.” A laugh bubbled out of him. “You’re the reason I can stay sane in that hellhole. You… I’ve been liking you, okay? Romantically. Like. A lot.”

You stopped walking. His head lolled against your shoulder, unbothered by the weight of his words. Your mouth opened—then closed. The street was quiet, moonlight glinting off puddles from the earlier rain. You looked down at him. He didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said. what the fuck do you do now?