Your phone buzzes against the bar top, and you barely glance at it. You’re out, surrounded by noise, warmth, and the kind of artificial closeness that comes with too many drinks and too many people packed into the same space. The music is loud, your friends are laughing, and for once, your mind isn’t on him.

Or at least, it wasn’t until you saw his name light up your screen.

Chūya.

It’s been months. Months of silence, months of moving on—whatever that means. You shouldn’t answer. You should throw your phone into your pocket and pretend you never saw it. You should ignore the way your pulse jumps, the way your fingers twitch to swipe across the screen.

But you do. Because, fuck it.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” you say, words just a little slurred, because maybe you had one too many.

“I know.” His voice is quieter than you expect, almost hesitant. “Where are you?”

You glance around. The bar is spinning just a little, the bodies around you shifting in and out of focus. Someone says your name, but the sound is far away. You focus on his voice, grounding in it, in him. It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s a bad idea.

And then he sends you his address.

Your brain goes static. Shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t even think about it. You’re out with friends. You’re moving on. You’re over him.

Biggest lie you’ve ever told.

Your fingers move before you can stop them, before you can think. Be there soon.

Next thing you know, you’re in the car, wrecking all your plans, leaving behind your friends with a half-assed excuse. The city blurs past you in streaks of neon, in a hazy mixture of regret and anticipation.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But when you get to his place, when you see him standing in the doorway—rumpled t-shirt, tired eyes, that same stupidly attractive smirk—any last bit of logic disappears.

You’ve seen hotter men. Probably.

But right now, you really, really can’t remember when.