Andra had only taken three steps out of the crowded bar when he finally caught sight of her again—Nafisa—walking in the most uncoordinated, unbalanced, absolutely-losing-to-gravity manner a human being could possibly manage. Her heels wobbled, her knees bent at questionable angles, and her long hair kept falling forward as if trying to escape her head.
Andra froze.
"Oh, dear God," he muttered.
Not even five minutes ago, she looked like a goddess on the dance floor—radiant, composed, devastatingly beautiful.
Now?
She looked like that same goddess had been unplugged from the power source.
And then—then—she did the one thing that made Andra's soul nearly leave his body.
She stepped forward.
Right toward the road.
Toward the red pedestrian light.
Andra's brain shut down for exactly one second before his survival reflex kicked in.
"OI—STOP!"
He lunged, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her back just as she was about to take another drunken step.
Nafisa whipped her head toward him, her eyes half-lidded but her eyebrows furrowed as if he was the problem.
"Hah?" she blinked.
"Hah??" Andra echoed, equally confused but ten times more terrified.
"Are you trying to die? The light is red! Red means stop. Not stroll casually into chaos."
She squinted at the traffic light, then at him, then at the road again.
Then back at him.
"It's red…?"
"YES!"
A beat.
"Oh."
Andra stared at her. Nafisa stared at nothing.
Cars rushed in front of them like an aggressive reminder of mortality.
He exhaled, long and heavy like a disappointed father.
He still held her wrist—not too tight, just in case gravity decided to betray her again.
Then, because he had nearly witnessed her die, the words spilled out without pause.
"You can't just walk like that—especially not in your condition. You're drunk, extremely drunk, dangerously drunk—and you don't even seem to know where you're stepping. Do you have any idea how many accidents happen every night? People think they're fine, they think the world is soft and padded, but it's not. That road could've killed you in one second if I didn't—"
"—stop."
She cut him off.
Just like that.
No remorse, no gratitude, no sense of having been saved from certain death.
Just one annoyed word and the cutest frown Andra had ever seen.
"Stop talking so much," she grumbled as she rubbed her temple.
"My head hurts. And you're loud."
Andra stared at her, speechless.
Then, a ridiculous, completely misplaced thought popped into his head:
(If a woman this gorgeous tells me to stop talking, I'll consider it a blessing… or a hobby… or—even better—a repeated habit.)
He blinked fast, snapping out of that forbidden monologue.
Right—focus.
He was the responsible one here.
The adult.
The non-drunk, non-chaotic human.
Remember the principle: opposite solution.
If one person is angry, the other must be calm.
If someone yells, he must smile peacefully.
If she's drunk, he must remain sober mentally and emotionally.
So Andra inhaled.
Then smiled.
"Okay. Fine. No more lecturing."
"Good," Nafisa said, as if she was the queen granting mercy.
She crossed her arms, immediately losing balance and stumbling forward—straight into him.
Her forehead landed on his chest with a soft thump.
Andra froze.
Her hair smelled like vanilla and something floral.
Her body—warm.
Her voice—muffled against him.
"Ugh… the world is spinning."
Andra swallowed.
Loudly.
"Okay… okay. We need to get you home. Where do you live?"
She cracked one eye open.
"Far."
"How far?"
"…train far."
Andra's soul evaporated.
"A train? You need a train ride to get home?"
She nodded weakly.
Andra looked to the sky, as if hoping God would descend to fetch this woman Himself.
"…I live in the opposite direction," he whispered to the universe.
The universe did not care.
Before he could figure out what to do, Nafisa suddenly looked up at him with the most serious drunk-face expression imaginable.
"Let's just stay at a hotel."
Everything inside Andra stopped moving.
His lungs? Paused.
His brain? Disconnected.
His heart? Doing parkour.
"A-A… hotel?"
Nafisa nodded as if suggesting something completely normal like going to buy bread.
"Yes. Hotel. Close. I'm sleepy. My head hurts. I need bed."
(Bed??)
Andra's thoughts launched themselves off a cliff.
Images—dangerous images—flashed one after another.
But then he slapped those thoughts back into the abyss.
Calm down. She's drunk. She's extremely drunk. This means nothing. Zero. Absolutely zero.
Still…
He was…
grateful?
NO.
No, no, no.
Stop it.
He shook his head aggressively, regaining composure like a monk smacking himself with holy discipline.
"We'll find a safe place for you to rest," he said slowly, carefully.
Nafisa didn't respond.
She was busy leaning against him again—because gravity, once more, held a personal grudge against her.
---
Her legs nearly buckled.
Andra reacted quickly, placing his hand at her back and guiding her closer.
"Put your arm around my shoulder."
She obeyed without complaint—surprisingly.
Her arm slid across his shoulders.
Her body pressed against his side.
And then…
Then…
Her chest—
Soft.
Warm.
Undeniably there.
Pressed right against him.
Andra stopped breathing.
(Oh heavenly universe, thank you—NO! Not thank you! Stop being grateful! She's drunk!)
He forced his brain back online and walked forward slowly, carefully guiding her along the sidewalk.
Nafisa mumbled something incoherent, her face buried against his shoulder.
Andra, on the other hand, prayed for strength, sanity, self-control, divine assistance, and maybe a memory-erasing spell.
They walked into the night—her leaning heavily on him, him fighting every unholy thought trying to bloom like poisonous flowers inside his brain.
A hotel sign flickered ahead.
Andra inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then whispered:
"Oh God… Oh Goddess… what have I gotten myself into?"
---
Nafisa's POV Section
The night had started beautifully.
Or at least, it was supposed to.
Nafisa fixed her hair in the reflection of the elevator doors, adjusting a few strands that refused to behave. She leaned closer, checking her lipstick—perfect—and her eyes—slightly tired, but bright enough. She pulled back, exhaled softly, and whispered to herself:
"Three months… it's been three months. We're still good, right? Me and Dani…"
Her own reflection stared back with a mixture of confidence and insecurity—an expression she had been wearing far too often lately.
Nafisa and Dani Mahendra—senior law student, charismatic, eloquent, the type of man lecturers adored and girls whispered about—had been dating for exactly ninety-one days. She counted. Because she always counted.
Their start had been sweet—playful banter, coffee after long classes, stolen glances in the hallway.
But lately… the sweetness was thinning, dissolving into something quieter. Something colder.
Still, she wanted tonight to be good.
A date night.
A proper one.
Dani had promised.
And Dani always sounded sincere, even when he wasn't.
They met in the apartment parking lot, Dani stepping out of his shiny sedan like a scene from an advertisement.
"Naf, you look gorgeous."
A soft kiss on her forehead.
Warm. Practiced.
Almost automated.
Nafisa smiled anyway.
She wanted to believe it.
They drove to the lounge—dim lights, soft jazz, and small golden bulbs hanging from the ceiling like a constellation crafted just for them.
She liked this place.
She liked that Dani chose it.
For a moment, she allowed herself to hope.
They sat at their reserved table, ordered two cocktails, and talked.
Or rather, Nafisa talked. Dani checked his phone every few minutes, typing things he wouldn't let her see.
But she pretended not to notice. Pretended everything was normal.
Because tonight was supposed to be good.
When the drinks arrived—two shimmering pink cocktails rimmed with sugar—she lifted her glass with a playful grin.
"Cheers?"
Dani reached for his glass—
Then his phone rang.
Urgent.
Loud.
Insistent.
He frowned.
Looked at the screen.
Jaw tightened.
Nafisa's heart sank.
"I have to take this," he muttered.
He pressed the phone to his ear, stood, turned away, walked a few steps—then a few more—until he was almost completely hidden behind a column.
Nafisa stared at the untouched glasses, the gentle swirl of the drink inside hers, and felt her excitement slowly evaporate into the ceiling.
After almost five minutes, Dani returned—face stern, steps fast.
"Naf, I'm so sorry. Something urgent came up. I have to go."
"What? But we just—"
"I know, I know. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
He grabbed his drink—didn't sip it properly, didn't toast, didn't look at her—and downed it in one go.
Not even a second to meet her eyes.
"I really have to run."
And that was it.
He left.
He left.
Left her sitting there, alone with two drinks and a sinking chest.
Left her after promising a night together.
Left her even though they came in the same car.
"That's… great," she whispered to herself.
Her throat tightening.
She tried to smile.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
Her heart squeezed with something she didn't want to name.
The waitress approached cautiously.
"Is everything okay, miss?"
Nafisa forced a laugh.
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you."
She wasn't fine.
She grabbed her cocktail.
Then another.
Then another.
Each sip blurred the ache.
Each sweet burn numbed the disappointment.
The jazz became softer, the lights warmer, the world slower.
By the fourth drink, everything was very warm.
By the fifth, her fingers tingled.
By the sixth…
"Okay… maybe… too much…"
She laughed at nothing.
The room swayed gently—like a cradle.
Her vision sparkled—like a glitter filter on low battery.
People talked around her, voices blending into indistinct waves.
She checked her phone.
No message.
No apology.
Not even a "text me when you get home."
She scoffed.
"Great boyfriend you've got, Naf."
"Perfect."
"Amazing."
Her sarcasm impressed even herself.
She stood up—too fast.
The floor tilted.
Her body followed.
She stumbled, regained balance, then lost it again.
"Okay… one step at a time. You got this."
But she didn't "got this."
She was drunk.
Stupidly, aggressively, disastrously drunk.
And to make things worse—
She had no car.
Because Dani had driven them there.
And Dani had taken the car with him.
Of course he did.
---
Outside, the cool night air slapped her cheeks.
Hard.
Refreshing.
Unhelpful.
She walked forward.
Or sideways.
Or something in between.
Every step felt like rewriting gravity.
Buildings blurred.
Streetlights looked like glowing halos.
People's faces blended together like watercolor.
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Get home… must get home…"
But her mind was foggy and her body was heavier than it should be.
She reached the pedestrian crossing.
A bright red light shone.
But in her state?
It looked… pinkish?
Pretty, even.
She squinted.
"…is that… red?"
She took a step forward.
And then another.
The world tilted.
Her foot touched the asphalt—
And then a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her back.
Hard.
"OI—STOP!"
She stumbled, blinking, trying to figure out who dared to yank her like that.
Her vision finally settled enough to reveal—
A guy.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Face half-lit by the neon signs behind him.
Eyebrows drawn together in pure panic.
He looked at her like she had just attempted suicide.
Which, she supposed… technically she did.
"Hah?" Nafisa blinked.
"Hah??" he repeated louder.
Her head hurt.
His voice made it hurt more.
He launched into a lecture.
A long one.
Words poured out like overflowing water from a broken faucet.
"…dangerous… red light… did you even see the cars… drunk… could've died…"
Too loud.
Too many words.
Her temples throbbed.
She closed one eye.
"Stop."
He froze mid-sentence, genuinely confused.
Nafisa sighed, irritated, exhausted, miserable, drunk—and possibly seconds away from crying.
"My head hurts. Don't talk too much."
He looked offended.
Appalled.
Personally victimized.
For some reason, this amused her.
But her amusement lasted only two seconds before dizziness swallowed her again and she fell forward—straight into his chest.
Warm.
Solid.
Steady.
Her headache eased slightly.
She let her forehead stay there.
"…world spinning…"
Then he asked where she lived.
She tried to explain.
"Far… like… train far…"
He seemed to malfunction completely.
His reaction was dramatic enough that she wanted to laugh.
And so she did.
A little giggle.
Cute.
Stupid.
And then—because her brain was floating somewhere three meters above her body—she declared:
"Let's just stay at a hotel."
It wasn't flirting.
It wasn't seduction.
It was simply survival.
Her head was pounding.
Her legs were liquid.
She needed a bed.
Nothing more.
At least, that's what she meant.
What he understood was probably something else entirely—she vaguely registered his shoulders tensing and his breath catching.
But she didn't care.
She was too tired to care.
Too drunk to filter anything.
He guided her gently, placing her arm around his shoulders.
She leaned on him heavily, because her legs had staged a strike.
The warmth of his body seeped into hers.
Her eyes fluttered.
"Don't fall asleep yet," he murmured beside her.
Nafisa hummed in weak protest.
Everything felt distant.
Blurred.
Soft.
She didn't know him.
Didn't know his name.
Didn't know why he bothered helping her.
But at that moment—too dizzy to stand, too heartbroken to think—
she simply let him lead her.
Her consciousness slipped in and out like a flickering lamp.
Her last coherent thought was a mumble against his shoulder:
"…who… are you…?"
And then—
Darkness.