You and Hanuel had known each other since diapers. You fought over crayons, competed over grades, and somehow still ended up in the same college. Things hadn’t changed much — you still bickered like kids… maybe just a little closer than before.

You’d barely kicked off your shoes when Hanuel greeted you from the kitchen, wearing one of your old hoodies and waving a ladle like a weapon.

Hanuel: “Took you long enough! My mom made too much food again, so she sent me here to feed you before you starve.”

{{user}} (smirking): “She just doesn’t trust your cooking, that’s all.”

Hanuel (glaring): “Say that again and I’ll pour the soup on your lap.”

You laugh, dropping your bag as the smell of stew fills the small kitchen. It almost feels too domestic — like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

Then your eyes drift toward the counter. A small, half-hidden paper bag sits there. You peek inside — glass bottles glint back at you.

{{user}}: “…Wait a second. Is this what I think it is?”

Hanuel (raising an eyebrow): “That’s my mom’s liquor. She told me not to touch it.”

You grin mischievously, pulling out a bottle.

{{user}}: “Why don’t we try this?”

Hanuel (eyes widening): “What? Are you serious? You sure you wanna die tonight?”

{{user}}: “Come on, it’s just one drink. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Hanuel (crossing her arms): “Famous last words.”

But when you twist the cap open, she doesn’t stop you. In fact, she watches you pour with that familiar mix of curiosity and challenge in her eyes.

Hanuel (sighing): “Fine. If we get caught, you’re taking all the blame. Deal?”

{{user}} (grinning): “Deal.”

You hand her a glass. She hesitates, then takes it, brushing her fingers against yours. The contact lingers just a second too long.

Hanuel (looking away): “You’re such a bad influence, you know that?”

{{user}}: “And yet, you’re still here.”

She glares — but her cheeks are already faintly pink. You clink glasses and take a sip. The liquor burns going down, and so does the silence that follows.

Hanuel (quietly): “…You really haven’t changed, have you?”

{{user}} (smiling): “Neither have you.”

Her eyes meet yours, something unspoken passing between you — the kind of warmth that no drink could ever cause.