“Give it back,” I hiss, the word coming out weak. Afraid.

“Hey, did you turn it off? Actually, I don’t hear anything at all,” he says, brow furrowing with playful curiosity. “What kind of headphones are these?”

The song Gwenchana presses at the back of my throat, a frantic tremor begging to escape. I bite it down.

“I said, give it back,” I repeat. My voice sharpens, heat bleeding through the fear. I sound dangerous now - I think.... and with he way I was crashing out, I knew I'd punch him if I had to. 

Something in my face must have finally reached him.

“Hey. Cool it,” he says gently. His smile softens as he lifts the headphones off his head with one hand and hands them back.

He’s still holding my hand.

Still watching me.

Pins and needles crawl up my arm, dulled only by the club’s bass pounding through my bones. I shove the headphones back on with my free hand. The world drops into blessed quiet. Then I yank my hand away.

“Happy birthday,” he mouths. Full lips. Pink. Soft-looking. His eyes crease with confusion, but there’s humor there too. Kindness. Something unreadable.

I turn and walk away.

I can’t answer. It’s humming "Gwenchana" now or nothing.

As I push out of the restroom, my verbal chant resumes, steady and rhythmic. I want to look back. To wave. Maybe smile. To explain that I’m autistic. That touch hurts, that sound hurts, that I’m not rude—I’m surviving.

But I don’t.

Behind me, Jiwon watches me disappear. His chest gives an unexpected thump.

Cute, he thinks, in surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face.

The bathroom encounter leaves a fuzz in my head. A tight knot in my chest and stomach. I feel a little sick, as i always do after unexpected social situations.

Even my stimming— quietly reciting Gwenchana on loop, clenching and releasing my fists—barely dulls the buzz under my skin. Something has shifted. A glitch in my plan for the night. It makes me uneasy.

When I return to the table, Hoon and Dae notice my unease immediately. Their eyes meet over the drinks. A silent question.

Do you want to leave? They ask silently.

I shake my head and force a smile. They had worked too hard for tonight. One more hour at least. I owe them that much

The song anchors me, but fragments keep breaking through.

His touch.
The way he lifted my headphones - cool, control, playful.
The sexy smile.
Green eyes - odd, enticing.

I sigh, sip my champagne slowly. I know how to pace myself. Alcohol calms me if respected. Destroys me, otherwise. I focus on the bubbles in my glass, dancing up the flute like stars chasing the ocean. It doesn’t help.

Those tattoos, creeping up the side of his neck, the way he had looked at me was like he saw something no one else could. I had slipped. My masking had failed. Years of practice had cracked in seconds.

It’s unsettling.

And worse still —captivating. He has become an effective loop, replaying in my subconscious.

I scan the crowd without meaning to.

Was he still here?

The thought that he was makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t understand. Fear and anticipation tangled together in one heady, intoxicating mess.

Had he been flirting?