The car hummed softly beneath you, its warmth curling around your body like a blanket after the chaotic blur of the night. Outside, the city was glowing—neon reflections dancing on rain-slicked pavement, streetlights flickering through the windows, casting golden stripes across Mingyu’s face as he drove. The party had drained you, loud music still thudding faintly in your chest even though you’d left hours ago.

Your heels were off. Your head leaned against the passenger-side window, temple cool against the glass. And beside you, Mingyu—one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching to adjust the heater, glance at you, then back at the road. Silent, but present. Always present.

He hadn’t said much when you stumbled into his car, makeup smudged, voice hoarse from talking over the bass. He didn’t need to. The way he took your bag without asking, the way he held your elbow when you nearly tripped, the way he opened the door and ducked his head to check your seatbelt—that said enough.

“I didn’t like how that guy talked to you,” he said suddenly, voice low, quiet enough that it almost disappeared under the hum of tires.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, subtle tension in his jaw as he exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t mad—not really. Just bothered. Protective in a way that made your chest tighten.

“You didn’t even look at me the whole time after that,” he continued, glancing your way again. "Thought maybe you were mad at me.”

You shifted slightly, your coat sliding down your shoulder. Mingyu reached over without thinking, gently pulling it back up and tucking it into place. His touch was warm. Familiar.

“I’m not mad,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Good.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, filled only with the soft rhythm of R&B playing from the stereo and the occasional turn of the car. The city slowly fell behind you, replaced by quiet neighborhoods, dimly lit streets, and the soft glow of porch lights.