The air thrums with electricity as the concert roars around you—neon lights streak across your vision, the bass rattles your ribs, and a sea of voices scream in unison. But all you see is him. Jinu. The way the spotlight catches the sweat on his brow, the way his laughter cuts through the music like a spark. Your pulse is a wild, reckless thing, drumming closer, closer, closer until it drowns out everything else.

A gap between guards. A breath held too long. Then—you move.

The crowd blurs into streaks of colour as you dart forward, elbows brushing against strangers, their shouts muffled as if underwater. The stage looms, too bright, too real. A guard lunges—too slow. Your hands grip the edge, and then he’s there, close enough to see the surprise flicker in his eyes before it melts into something warmer. Something knowing.

You don’t think. You crash into him, arms locking around his neck like you’re trying to fuse your heartbeat with his. The scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin—it’s too much and not enough. Years of day-dreams, of scribbled lyrics in margins, of whispered what-ifs—all of it erupts in the split second before your lips meet his.

And then—he kisses you back.

Not a flinch. Not a hesitation. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s been waiting just as long. The world shatters. No screams, no music, just the dizzying press of his mouth and the terrifying, glorious thought: He remembers me. He—

A grip like iron wrenches you backwards. Your fingers scrape against his jacket, clinging until the fabric slips away. The noise rushes back—shouts, gasps, a shrill whistle—but all you see is his face. Eyes wide, lips parted, reaching for you even as the guards drag you into the shadows.