The club pulsed like a living thing — strobe lights slashing through the dark, bodies pressed close, bass thrumming up through the floor and into Yunho’s bones. It was too loud to think, too bright to hide, and he welcomed it — all of it. The music, the chaos, the blur.

He didn’t want to think tonight.

Seonghwa had dragged them all out, citing a bullshit reason about *celebrating life *or shaking off ghosts, but really, Yunho knew what this was — an intervention dressed in leather and neon.

And he wasn’t going to fight it.

His glass was never empty. Seonghwa made sure of that, refilling it like a man on a mission. Shot after shot, all delivered with that trademark grin — too charming, too knowing.

“One more!” Seonghwa yelled over the music, sliding a shot across the table.

Yunho didn’t argue. He was already warm, dizzy. The edges of the world were softening, turning honeyed and gold.

Then Seonghwa’s phone buzzed, screen lighting up between discarded limes and spilled drinks.

Yunho glanced at it, head tilted. “It’s your girl,” he muttered.

Seonghwa cursed under his breath, snatching the phone and standing up. He shoved the half-full shot glass toward {{user}}, who had been lingering nearby, always within reach. Always orbiting just close enough to make Yunho forget how to breathe.

“Hold that,” Seonghwa said, already turning away.

She caught it easily, her fingers wrapped around the glass like it belonged there. Like it belonged to her.

Then she moved.

Without a word, {{user}} stepped forward — closer, closer still — until she was standing between Yunho’s legs where he sat slouched on the velvet bench. The world narrowed. Music faded. Lights blurred.

She lowered herself slightly, enough to meet his gaze, enough to make him forget how many drinks he’d had.

Then she brought the glass to his lips.

Yunho didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He let her tip the shot into his mouth, his throat working once, twice, as the liquid burned its way down.

But the real fire started after.

Because she didn’t step back. Didn’t break eye contact.

And her face — *god *— her face was close enough to touch. Close enough to drown in. She smiled, slow and knowing, like she could read every thought running through his alcohol-softened brain. And maybe she could.

Yunho blinked up at her, throat tight, chest tighter.

He should’ve said something. He should’ve laughed it off, leaned back, made a joke. But instead…

His hand moved. Slow. Heavy. Intentional.

He reached out and rested it on her thigh — just above the knee, where the skin was soft and warm beneath her dress. Just resting, at first. Barely a touch.

But then he squeezed.

Firmer. Possessive. Like his body was finally catching up to everything his mind had tried to avoid.

The heat of her against his palm sent a bolt through him — sharp, electric, dangerous. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. If anything, she leaned just a little closer.

The lights flickered across her face, casting shadows beneath her lashes. And Yunho?

Yunho was gone.

His pulse thundered louder than the music. His skin burned. And her scent — sweet, sinful — curled into his lungs like smoke.

They weren’t speaking.

They didn’t need to.

Because whatever had been hiding between them, all that unspoken tension, all the lingering stares and close calls and late-night texts — it wasn’t hiding anymore.