heaven and back

You’ve told him ‘no’ three different ways before you even get in the car.

The first is polite: soft voice, palms up, the whole ‘hey man, appreciate it but I’m good’ routine. The second is practical—readings you haven’t done, an early class you can’t skip again, and a body that reacts to alcohol like it’s a personal insult. And the third is just you finally being honest, because you’ve learned that sometimes, you have to be blunt or he’ll treat your boundaries like polite suggestions.

“I’m not drinking,” you insist, and you’re dead serious about it. “And I don’t want to go clubbing.”

Of course, your friend, Wonbin, casually smiles like you’ve said something adorable.

He’s leaning against the driver side of his car, the kind that looks like it was designed to be photographed outside of hotels. Clean lines, dark paint, the Mercedes silver arrow discreet but still loud. His shirt is black and fitted in a way that makes you suspect it’s luxury just because it refuses to wrinkle. The watch on his wrist is one of those sleek, quiet things that probably costs the same as your tuition down payment, but he wears it like it’s just what happens when you’re born into money.

He doesn’t say your name. He never does when he’s trying to win.

“You never let me do anything nice for you,” he says.

“Because your definition of ‘nice’ is—whatever this is.” 

You’re gesturing at the car, the downtown skyline glowing from a distance, the way even the air here smells different already: less cheap food and exhaust, more cologne and polished stone.

Wonbin laughs, low and easy. “Okay, and how many times have I let you do nice things for me?”

“That’s not—”

“Oh, it is.” He pushes off the car and steps closer, grin turning sharp around the edges. “Thesis. Relationship advice. You literally stayed up with me until four a.m. to rewrite my methodology section because I was ‘stressed.’”

“I did not rewrite—”

“You rewrote,” he says, like it’s already settled in court. “And you did it without asking for anything. Not even a ‘buy me coffee.’ You’re allergic to being owed, which is cute, but also annoying. So. Tonight is me returning overdue favors.”

Your own outfit suddenly feels like it’s being judged by the city itself: jeans, sneakers, a shirt you got on sale because it was the cleanest thing on top of the pile, topped by a coat you typically save for campus presentations. You look like a guy who belongs in a library, or a cafeteria line, or sitting on a mono block chair outside a coffee truck scrolling on low battery.

You do not look anywhere like you belong wherever he’s taking you.

“I can’t even afford to breathe in that place,” you tell him. “Also, I’m not drinking.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Who said you have to drink?”

“You did. You literally said, ‘Let’s go get drinks.’”

“Marketing,” he corrects. “It’s called marketing. I’m selling you an experience. There will be other beverages.”

You glare at him until he sighs dramatically, like you’re the one being difficult.

“Fine,” he starts again. “Let me be honest. This is not a ‘random’ night. I’ve had this date marked for months.”

That's new. Wonbin can be impulsive at times, yes, but he’s also the type to treat his life like a calendar invite: everything curated, everything done with reason.

“You marked a club night on your calendar,” you repeat, just to make sure you've heard him correctly.

“Idol Night,” he answers, and he says it like you should already know what that is. Like it’s a national holiday.

You blink. “Idol—as in—”

“As in yes. K-pop idols.” His smile widens, pleased with himself, like the whole concept was his vision. “And before you start, no, you can’t Google it. You won’t find it. That’s the whole point.”

God, if only you can just eject yourself from his car. You could still walk away the responsible one, the boring one, the guy who goes home and washes dishes and sets alarms like life is a series of small, careful choices. Maybe you can refuse and he’d sulk for maybe an hour and then buy you something as a peace offering and you’d both pretend this never happened.

But then he reiterates, quietly: “You’ve never let me return anything.”

And you hate when he says it, because it’s true. He’s not wrong; you’ve always been the friend who helps and shrugs it off and says it’s fine, and part of you—some tiny, inconvenient part—knows that maybe letting someone do something for you isn’t a crime.

So you exhale, long and resigned to his schedule.

“Fine,” you finally concede. “But I’m leaving early.”

His beam is triumphant. “Perfect. You can leave early. After the performance.”

“You’re negotiating,” you say.

“I’m already winning,” he replies immediately, and opens the passenger door like you’re stepping into a different life for the night.

He slides into the driver’s seat like it’s home. You buckle up like you’re bracing for impact.

As you pull away from the main highway and into the downtown district, the buildings grow taller and shinier and less forgiving. Streetlights reflect off glass walls. The sidewalks are wide, clean, almost sterile—like they’re designed more for walking with purpose than lingering. You pass restaurants with menus you can’t pronounce and storefronts that display a single handbag bathed in spotlight like art pieces in a museum.

Your friend drives one-handed, relaxed. He taps the steering wheel with a ringed finger, humming along to a song you’ve put him on, one of the few things from your world he'll indulge in, and you try not to think about how easy everything looks from his point of view.

“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going exactly?" you ask, knowing there's no answer waiting on the other end.

“You’ll see."

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be comforting,” he replies, and then, softer, like he’s letting you in on a secret: “It’s supposed to be special.”

You can't help but snort. “You sound like an ad.”

“I am an ad,” he continues. “For a lifestyle you refuse to try. Tonight, you’re my target market.”

You lean your head against the window and watch the city smear into light. Tell yourself you’ll stay for an hour. 90 minutes, tops. Sip whatever non-alcoholic thing he shoves at you, clap politely, pretend you know what to do with your hands, and then you’ll slip out before midnight, before anyone expects you to be the kind of guy who stays.

Before you start to feel like you belong.

—————

The club is nestled inside a building that doesn’t look it was designed for partying.

There’s no neon sign screaming for attention. No decadent posters. No hourlong or more queue of sweaty people in heels, rushed makeup, and tight shirts. From a distance, it’s almost anonymous: dark facade, clean edges, a discreet entrance framed by a pair of men in black suits who stand too still to be set decoration. Wonbin pulls up without slowing, and the valet steps forward like he’s been waiting specifically for this car. 

He gets out first. You follow, and immediately feel underdressed in a way that’s almost physical, like your shirt is suddenly itchy and your sneakers are a joke everyone can hear.

The exchange is smooth, silent, practiced. Wonbin doesn’t even look back as he hands over the keys; he simply turns to you and says, “Don’t look terrified.”