Based on the song:
嘿人李逵Noisemakers 宝贝在干嘛
⋅˚₊‧ ୨ㅤ♡ྀི ₊ ୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Your phone buzzed again.
Scaramouche:
darling what are you doing?
Scaramovche:
are you there or asleep?
Scaramouche:
why are you not replying!!(〒﹏〒)...
You exhaled, staring at the messages stacking up. They were coming in faster now—sometimes full sentences, sometimes random strings of emojis, sometimes voice notes where his words slurred into the background bass of a club.
“…’m fine. No, I’m not fine. It’s loud. I don’t like these people. Come get me.”
The clock read 12:23 AM. You were wrapped in a blanket, a half-finished drama on your laptop, tea gone cold. Normally, you’d ignore him when he got like this—dramatic, restless, needy. But there was something in his voice tonight. Not just drunken sloppiness… something softer.
“…Babe… what if you forgot me already? You wouldn’t… right?”
Your chest tightened. With a muttered curse, you grabbed your hoodie and keys.
The bar was neon-lit chaos. You spotted him instantly—hood up, elbows on the counter, nursing a glass he clearly didn’t want anymore. His phone was still in his hand, thumb hovering over your chat window.
He noticed you and lit up like a streetlamp in the rain. “There you are,” he said, stumbling toward you. “I was about to text you again.”
“You already did. Twenty-two times.”
He smirked, but his eyes were glazed with relief. “You came.”
You took his arm, guiding him out into the cool night air. “You’re freezing. Let’s get you home.”
Halfway down the street, his hand slipped into yours—loose but insistent. “Next time,” he murmured, “just reply faster. Even if you yell at me. I hate not knowing what you’re doing.”
You didn’t answer, just squeezed his hand tighter. The city noise faded behind you, leaving only the sound of your steps in sync.