Can’t Remember to Forget you — Shakira , Rihanna

You didn’t expect him to find you here. Not in a half-abandoned hotel on the edge of the city, the one you booked for two nights just to breathe. You were supposed to be alone — quiet rooms, no distractions, a little space to think without him intruding on every thought.

But of course, he had to show up.

Bang Chan. He wasn’t supposed to be in this city. He wasn’t supposed to know you were here. And yet, there he is, leaning against the window, the city lights cutting across his face like he owns every shadow.

You were at a rooftop bar earlier, trying to drown the week in whiskey and music, scrolling through your phone like maybe, just maybe, he’d forgotten where you are. He hadn’t. He always knows. That’s what makes him dangerous. That’s what makes you addicted.

“You still leave it unlocked,” he says as soon as you step in, voice low, teasing, like nothing has changed.

You drop your bag with more force than necessary, heart thumping in your chest.

“You still think you can walk in whenever you want,” you snap, but there’s no real bite to it.

He smirks. He always smirks.

“You didn’t answer my call,” he says, stepping closer. “So I came to check for myself.”

The rain has started outside, tapping the windows in rhythm with the low hum of the city. You stare at him, trying to memorize every detail — the gold chain glinting under the dim light, the way his hair is damp at the edges from the storm he walked through to get here.

“Why now?” you ask, your voice softer than intended. “Because you were on the roof,” he replies, grin crooked. “Laughing at strangers, pretending you’re fine. I couldn’t let you do that alone.”

He steps closer. The air shifts. He smells like late-night streets, cigarettes, and the storm that followed him inside. You should push him away. You should slam the door, call a cab, anything to keep him at arm’s length. But when he touches your wrist, you freeze.

“You came back,” he murmurs. “I never really left,” you admit, even as every warning bell in your head screams.

He leans closer, and the city disappears. The rain, the streets, the distant music — it’s just you, him, and the kind of dangerous heat that always ends in regret.

“You’ll hate me in the morning,” he whispers against your ear. “I already do,” you reply, pulling him back anyway.

Because you both know the truth: leaving him is impossible. Forgetting him is impossible. And even in a quiet hotel room on the edge of the city, you’d do anything for that boy.