The room dripped in gold—crystal chandeliers throwing flecks of light across velvet walls, champagne glasses clinking like polished bells, Moon family sponsors talking stocks and stadiums. You had tried to blend in, really, you had.’But somewhere between the flute of something sparkling and the bartender calling you “Miss Moon” like you belonged here, it all got fuzzy.

You’d lost Min Ho in the sea of designer suits and impossible cheekbones. Now, you were—well. You weren’t walking so much as wobbling through the crowd with the elegance of a wind-up duck.

“‘Scuse me,” you slurred at some glass statue or maybe a woman. “You’re very… uhm. See-through.”

And then someone caught your elbow.

Firm grip. Familiar.

“Covey.”

That voice. Low, sharp. Not amused.

You turned—too fast, the world lagging behind—and there he was. Min Ho. Impeccable in all-black, fury and panic warping his features.

“Minnn,” you grinned, swaying into him like gravity had changed its mind. “Moon boyyy. You’re late to your own f-family sparkle explosion…”

“Are you drunk?” His jaw clenched.

You held up your fingers, squinting. “Only a lil’ bit.”

He stared at you, eyes dark and wide with something dangerous. “You’re sloshed.”

You giggled. “Is that a Korean word orrr…?”

“Kitty,” he hissed, gripping your arm tighter as you stumbled again. “What the hell were you thinking? This isn’t high school—this is a Moon family gala. With sponsors. With my dad.”

You blinked at him. “Heyyy, you’re real close. Like. Movie-scene close.”

He exhaled through his nose, visibly fighting the urge to scream. “You don’t get to flirt when you can’t even stand up straight.”

“Not flirting,” you whispered. “Your face is just… magnetic.”

“Jesus Christ.” His free hand ran through his hair. “How many drinks did you have?”

You shrugged, nearly falling over. “Uhhh. One? Then another one. Then a third one said hi. Then I kissed a grape.”

“You kissed a grape?” he snapped. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Nooo, it was, like, in the drink. Floating. All alone.”

Min Ho muttered something in Korean that sounded like a prayer and a curse stitched together. “You weren’t supposed to drink, Covey.”

You looked up at him, the corners of your mouth drooping. “Didn’t know grown-up me was this… floaty.”

He stepped in front of you, both hands gripping your shoulders now. “You’re embarrassing yourself. And me.”

The words hit harder than the champagne. Your smile faltered. “Oh.”

“But,” he added, voice softer now, “more importantly, you could’ve been—anyone could’ve—what if some creep took advantage of you? What if you got sick?”

His expression *cracked—*just a little. Worry leaking through the anger.

You blinked. “You care.”

His jaw worked. “Of course I care. God, Kitty.”

You swayed again, and this time, he caught you fully. Arms around your waist, anchoring you.

“C’mon,” he muttered. “I’m getting you out of here before my father sees you singing to the flower arrangements.”

“Too late,” you mumbled. “Told the roses they had trust issues.”

Min Ho closed his eyes. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”

But even as he guided you toward the door, practically carrying you, he didn’t let go. Not once.

And his hand, pressed at your waist, stayed there a little too long.

Minho, he’s just soft with you. He’s never ever moved on, ever.