the party is loud and golden, champagne light spilling over the rooftop, and everyone is laughing like the world didn't end three years ago.

you're holding a glass you've barely touched, watching the city blur beneath you, when the crowd shifts and there he is.

sunghoon. standing near the balcony's edge, one hand in his pocket, listening to someone you don't recognize. he's thinner, maybe. sharper. his jaw still does that thing where it tightens when he's pretending not to notice you.

but he has noticed. you can tell by the way his fingers have gone still around his glass.

he excuses himself from the conversation without a word, and then he's walking toward you like it costs him something.

his voice is lower than you remember. quieter. like he's afraid of it cracking.