You don’t usually do parties.

Fests? Loud music? Random strangers and glittery drinks? Not your thing. You’d rather be curled up in your room with notes and silence.

But today? Today you decided to live. Let loose. Have fun.

One drink became two. Two became—well, you're sloshed. Your head’s spinning, your feet barely cooperate, and your dignity? Long gone.

You fumble with your phone, trying to call your best friend for an emergency pick-up. But instead of your best friend, you end up calling him.

Bang Christopher Chan. Your rival. Your headache. Your academic nemesis. The guy you hate… and lowkey dream about.

“Hello?” His voice is smooth, annoyed.

“Baby, can you pick me up from the fest?” you slur sweetly.

Silence. Stone cold.

“…What the hell are you talking about?” He practically growls.

But you're too drunk to notice. "Pleaseeeee," you hiccup, dragging the word like it owes you money.

There's a pause. Then the most disgusted sigh you've ever heard. “I’m not your damn babysitter. Cut the call.”

“If you don’t come, I’m gonna cry…” you pout, unknowingly twisting the knife.

Another sigh. He’s losing. “Fine. Tell me where you are.”

You give him the location, drop your head on the table, and pass out half-expecting your friend. But no.

Suddenly, there's a tap on your shoulder.

“Hey. You called,” he says. Standing there like he didn’t just swear at you five minutes ago. Black coat, smug face, eyebrow raised. God, why does he have to look that good?

You blink. “Wha…?”

Chris smirks, leaning closer. “And you called me baby.”

You're done for.