The night had started like any other—laughter, clinking glasses, Beomgyu’s arm slung over your shoulder as he leaned into you, his breath warm and sweet with the scent of soju. He wasn’t wasted, but he was far from sober, his movements loose, his grin lopsided. You had already pulled out your phone to call a cab when he waved you off, keys jingling in his hand.

“C’mon, I’m fine,” he insisted, voice slurring just enough to make your stomach twist. “I’ve driven way worse.”

You should’ve fought harder. You should’ve taken the keys. But you didn’t.

The crash happened too fast.

A sharp turn taken too wide. Tires screeching. The sickening crunch of metal.

Then—silence.

Beomgyu’s head pounded, his vision swimming as he blinked against the sting of blood trickling down his forehead. The airbag had knocked the breath out of him, but he was alive. He was fine.

And then he saw you. Your head was tilted at an unnatural angle, your body limp against the seatbelt. There was blood—too much blood—seeping from a gash near your hairline. Your chest rose and fell, but your eyes stayed closed.