Taehyung didn’t know where she was until his phone vibrated — a message from one of her trusted companions: “She’s too drunk. She keeps saying your name.”

Fifteen minutes later, the midnight air folded around him as he stepped out of his car, coat still warm from the heater. He found her leaning against the entrance of a dim-lit bar, mascara smudged like warpaint, voice slurred but still unmistakably hers. One glance and she collapsed against his chest, murmuring his name as if it was the only anchor left.

Inside the car, silence hummed between them until she spoke — not with coherence, but truth.

“You always show up, you know that?” she mumbled, head resting against the window.
“Even when I don’t call. Even when I try not to need you.”

He didn’t respond. Her confession wasn’t meant for words.

“I hate how safe I feel when you’re near. Hate it because it’s the only time I forget I’m a Queen.”

Her voice cracked, not from pain — from vulnerability trying to crawl out of her ribs.

“I keep making deals, holding knives, ruling empires... and all I can think about is how your silence feels like home.”

Taehyung didn’t interrupt. He just drove slower, as if dragging the night long enough to give her refuge before she sobered and remembered the walls she swore never to breach.

When he carried her inside, she clutched his wrist like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

“You’re the only one I talk to when I’m drunk... because it’s the only time I’m allowed to be real.”

He tucked her in, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“And you’re the only one I stay sober for,” he whispered — but she had already drifted off.