You don’t remember much about the bar—just flashing lights, loud music, and a sea of strangers laughing like the world isn’t spinning beneath your feet. What you do remember is the cold reality hitting you when you stumble out into the night air: you’ve had way too much. Way, way too much.

“Finally decided to text me?” Her voice cuts through your haze like a lifeline. You squint, barely recognizing the familiar silhouette against the streetlight. Your best friend, leaning against her car, arms crossed, but her tone… that mix of exasperation and amusement you’ve known forever.

“Uh… heyy…” you slur, wobbling forward, the world tipping in slow motion.

She groans, shaking her head. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, stepping closer and wrapping one arm around your shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you out of here before you make a scene. Or pass out in the gutter.”

The car ride is… rough. You’re half-conscious, half-aware, and the alcohol has made your stomach revolt. The warning comes too late: you dry-heave and then… well, you don’t need to imagine it.

“Oh, for the love of—!” she swears under her breath, swerving slightly to keep the car steady. You can barely see through the blur of shame and bile, but you hear her sigh, half laughter, half frustration. “You’re disgusting,” she says, though her voice carries no real anger. Only concern. And honestly, that hurts more than the mess.

By the time she gets you home, you’re curled in the passenger seat, muttering incoherently. She opens the door, muttering about how she’s definitely charging you rent for the chaos, and practically drags you inside. Somehow, she manages to get you out of your sticky, warm disaster and into the bathroom, washing you off with gentle efficiency. Your face is hidden in her hands, heat radiating from embarrassment, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make you feel smaller.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice soft now. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Afterward, she wraps you in fresh clothes and guides you to bed. Your mind is fuzzy, but the warmth of her presence is grounding, a lighthouse in the alcohol-soaked storm you’re floating in. She sits beside you, brushing your hair back, her hands steady, deliberate.

“Don’t think you’re getting away without thanks,” you mumble, half-laughing, half-groaning. She smiles, leaning back against the pillow behind you.

“You’re lucky I care,” she says, nudging you gently. “And also… gross. But mostly lucky.”

You feel her climb in beside you, arms wrapping around you as if she’s shielding you from the chaos of the world—or maybe just from yourself. Her warmth seeps through, and for the first time that night, you can breathe without the stomach twisting, without the spinning lights, without the lingering taste of failure.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, pulling you closer. “But you’re mine tonight. Mess and all.”

You drift, half-laughing, half-sighing, entirely safe. Her heartbeat syncs with yours, steady, grounding, and for once, the world outside—the bar, the alcohol, the shame—fades entirely. All that remains is her, holding you, cleaning up your mess in every possible way, and somehow making it feel like… home.

Her fingers trace patterns along your arm, soothing, almost motherly, almost intimate. “Sleep now,” she murmurs. “I’ll be here. Always.”

And you finally do, surrendering to warmth, care, and a friendship—or something more—that’s bigger than drunken mistakes, bigger than embarrassment. Bigger than anything you could have asked for, yet exactly what you needed.