The party is loud, sweaty, and already a blur by the time you lose count of your drinks. Music rattles the walls, bodies packed too close, laughter spilling everywhere. Sungho has been next to you all night, shoulder brushing yours, eyes lingering longer than they should. Every time you laugh, he looks at you like he’s memorizing it.

You don’t remember who grabbed whose wrist first.

All you know is that the bathroom door shuts behind you, locking out the noise. The space is small, cramped, smelling faintly of alcohol and perfume. Sungho leans back against the sink, breathing heavy, eyes dark and unfocused as he looks at you.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters, smiling like he doesn’t mean it.

You step closer anyway. The tension snaps. His hands find your waist, yours fisting into his shirt as your mouths crash together, messy and uncoordinated, tasting like drinks and adrenaline. He laughs softly against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time, like he’s grounding himself.

Someone knocks on the door. Neither of you pull away.