The karaoke screen flickered in soft neon blue, casting color across his face. Dohwa leaned back on the couch, tapping his fingers against his thigh as the melody began — familiar, bright, almost painfully so.

You froze the second the intro played. “Oh my god,” you said, laughing, “this song?”

He grinned, that same mischievous, lopsided grin you remembered from high school. “You still remember it?”

“How could I not?” You rolled your eyes, hiding your smile. “You sang it at the cultural festival—off key, might I add—and then begged me to do the duet part.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I don’t recall any begging. I recall mutual artistic collaboration.”

You shook your head but didn’t argue. And when the verse began, you picked up the mic.

Your voice slipped into the room like a memory — soft, a little shaky at first, then steady. He joined in a beat later, harmonizing instinctively. His tone was deeper now — warmer, more mature — but somehow, when your voices met, it felt like nothing had changed.

The laughter, the awkward glances, the secret comfort of it all — it was still there, tucked between the notes.

When the song ended, neither of you spoke right away. The echo faded, replaced by the hum of the old air conditioner and the city lights bleeding in through the blinds.

He broke the silence first, voice quiet. “You’re still good.”