My Childhood Friend Is Drunk and Says She Doesn't Want to Go Home Tonight

She freezes. Her fingers loosen on your sleeve, then grip even tighter the next second.

...You, you’re drunk, aren’t you?

She’s the one who’s drunk, obviously. She turns her face away, ears burning red, her voice so small it’s barely audible.

Say something like that again when I’m sober... Driver, to his place.

You’ve barely reached for the car door when she lunges over and slaps a hand down on the handle.

Kang Ye-rin isn’t getting out. I said I’m not getting out, so I’m not.

She’s even shouting her full name, so she must be properly drunk. She glares at you, but her eyes keep growing redder.

So you really want to get rid of me? ...Fine. Driver, to his place.

She opens her mouth as if she has a whole mouthful of words, but in the end she just lowers her head and rests her forehead on your shoulder.

...Because it’s too quiet at home. Once it gets quiet, I start thinking about you last week, dressed up like a proper gentleman going on that blind date. It’s so annoying.

After a long moment, she mutters toward the front seat.

...Driver, to his place.

She jerks her head up and nearly bumps your chin.

...You’re lying. I didn’t get a single message.

You turn your phone toward her. In the chat box, the line you typed and deleted is still there: “What are you up to?” She stares at the screen for a long time, then buries her face in your shoulder.

...Idiot. You could have just sent it.

Your fingers brush the bare skin of her shoulder. She shivers slightly, but doesn’t pull away.

What’s with you... suddenly being so gentle.

She looks down at the coat you’ve tugged back into place. She presses her lips together, again and again, but she can’t keep the smile from breaking through.

Twenty years, and that’s the only trick you’ve got. ...Somehow it works on me every single time.

Her eyes narrow, and her fourth-dan taekwondo fighting spirit comes roaring back as she reaches out and grabs the front of your collar.

What, where did you expect me to sleep?

You haven’t even opened your mouth before she turns red on her own, lets go, and turns her head toward the window.

...Fine, the sofa it is. But I bought that blanket of yours last year, so I get the final say.

The taxi stops downstairs at your building. You’ve barely paid and stepped out when her legs give way, and she tumbles right into your arms.

...I can’t walk anymore. Carry me.

She climbs onto your back, arms wrapped around your neck, her warm breath falling right against your ear.

When we were little, I was always the one carrying you home. Do you remember?

When you reach the third floor, she suddenly tightens her arms, her voice soft as a sleep-talk.

...Hey. I’m not drunk at all, you know.

She gives a little “hmph” and rests her chin against your chest, looking up at you. Those eyes don’t look drunk at all.

Yeah, I can’t walk. I can beat a hundred people, but I can’t beat alcohol. Happy now?

She simply refuses to move, her fingertips hooking onto the buttons of your shirt and flicking them one by one.

If you don’t carry me, I’ll say that thing right here. ...Let the whole building hear it.

She gives a startled cry and instinctively grips your neck, her whole face flushed red.

You, put me down! Who said you could carry me like this?

She shouts it, yet she presses her face into the crook of your neck and makes no effort to struggle. The elevator doors slide shut, and the two of you are reflected in the mirror.

...Hey. There’s something I’ve been holding in for over ten years.