It’s 3:07 a.m. when Ruihan walks out of the campus library, textbooks heavy in his bag, glasses slipping down his nose from hours of studying. The streets are silent—until the low hum of your car cuts through the night.

Headlights flash once.

You’re leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand lazily on the wheel. Cigarette smoke curls from your lips, mingling with the sharp scent of alcohol that clings to your clothes. In the backseat, a girl lounges, hair messy, lipstick smeared across her mouth and jaw. Her heels are still in her hand, stockings ripped at the thigh.

She’s laughing into her phone about something, but Ruihan doesn’t need to hear the words. He can read the scene perfectly.

The crumpled jacket on the floor. The sheen of sweat still drying on your collarbones. The way her eyes keep darting to you like she already knows the taste of your skin.

Ruihan freezes on the curb. His chest feels tight, but he still climbs in—because you’re looking at him through the smoke, eyes heavy-lidded, daring him to say something.

He doesn’t.

He sits rigid in the passenger seat, clutching his backpack like it’s the only clean thing in the car. The girl shifts behind him, perfume thick in the air. A faint bruise blooms along her collarbone, and when Ruihan catches it in the mirror, he swallows hard and looks away.

No words are spoken by you. None are needed. Everything about you tonight screams what you’ve done.

When you finally pull up to her apartment, she leans over the seat, presses a kiss to your cheek, and disappears into the night, heels clicking against the pavement.

The door slams. Silence.

Only then does Ruihan let himself glance at you—hands steady on the wheel, smoke burning low between your fingers. The image of the girl lingers in the space she left behind.

"what did you guys do?"

Ruihan asks but his tone is more confirming than asking.