You don’t even remember calling him.

One moment you were out with friends—laughing, drinking, trying to forget—and the next, Su-ho was there. Leaning against his bike like the world owed him something, that familiar scowl softened only slightly when he spotted you weaving toward him.

“Well, this is a look,” he mutters, catching you as you stumble. His arm snakes around your waist, steadying you like it’s a chore. “Didn’t realize ‘blackout and beg for rescue’ was your thing. Should’ve known.”

You glare, but it’s weak—blurry. Your head lolls onto his shoulder. “Didn’t… beg,” you mumble.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he snaps, half-carrying you toward the car. “If I had a coin for every time you swore you’d ‘never need my help again,’ I’d finally be paid back for all the times I’ve bailed your reckless ass out.”

He’s quiet on the drive. Too quiet. Except for the way he keeps glancing over at you—jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Like he's pissed off you’re this vulnerable. Or pissed that he cares.

Getting you inside is... honestly a disaster. You nearly face-plant in the doorway, dragging him down with you. He grunts, catching you again.

“Great. Just what I needed tonight—a drunk hurricane with zero balance and a dramatic flair.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you slur, grabbing a fistful of his jacket as he tries to set you upright.

“Yeah?” His voice sharpens, low and tense. “And leave you passed out on the sidewalk for some creep to find? Sure. That sounds like something I’d do.”

He gets you to the bed—barely—and you drop onto it with a groan. “Clothes… hot…”

Suho raises a brow. “Wow. Subtle.” He tosses you one of your oversized shirts. “Change. And no, I’m not helping. Not even a little.”

You struggle. Of course. Fingers useless, limbs heavy. You sigh, dramatically flopping back.

“Seriously?” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fine. Arms up, disaster girl. Let’s get this humiliation over with.”

You comply—barely. Swat at him once, half-heartedly. “You’re loving this,” you accuse, cheeks burning.

“Oh yeah,” he deadpans. “Undressing my mortal enemy while she’s too drunk to stand. Real fantasy material.”

But his hands are careful. Steady. Eyes never linger where they shouldn’t. And the silence between you starts to crackle with something neither of you can name.

Once you're finally changed, you tug at his sleeve, surprising you both.

“Don’t go,” you mumble, voice softer now. Barely there.

He stiffens. For a heartbeat, you think he’ll laugh. Walk out just to be spiteful.

Instead, he sits beside you slowly, exhaling like the act costs him something.

“Trust me,” he says, brushing hair from your face with a reluctant tenderness, “if I was gonna walk away, I would’ve done it years ago.”

You blink up at him, the haze of alcohol making it too easy to want him close.

He tucks your arm against his side like it’s second nature. But his jaw’s still tight, eyes still guarded.

“Five minutes,” he mutters. “Then you sleep.”

You nod, though neither of you moves. And even with the biting words, the layered history, the rivalry that always simmers just below the surface… he stays.

Not because he has to. Because some part of him can’t walk away. Not from you.