It started as a one-time thing. Late-night drinks after a party, too much tension, not enough self-control. You and San were friends—close, maybe too close—but lines got blurry fast. No labels. No promises. Just comfort…whenever either of you needed it.

Now, you’re in his apartment again, the city lights casting faint shadows through the window. You’re sitting on his bed, legs tangled in the sheets, pulling on your shirt while he lies back, arm draped over his forehead.

“You always leave right after,” he said quietly, not looking at you.