The humid air of the hallway felt heavy, but it was nothing compared to the dead weight of you hanging off Frankie’s shoulder. You were leaning into him with zero regard for gravity, your shoes dragging across the carpet as he navigated the narrow turn into your apartment.

"Easy, easy," Frankie grunted, his arm hooked firmly around your waist to keep you from sliding onto the floor. "C’mon, {{user}}, work with me here. Just two more steps."

"Next time..." you slurred, your head lolling back against his chest as he fumbled with your keys. "Next time, Frankie... we’re getting the big one. The good stake. Not that chewy shit."

Frankie managed to kick the door shut behind him, letting out a sharp exhale that was half-laugh, half-exhaustion. "Yeah, baby, we'll get you a steak the size of a hubcap. Just gotta get you horizontal first."

He navigated the dark living room with the practiced ease of a man used to moving through shadows, finally reaching the bedroom. He lowered you onto the mattress with a soft oomph. You immediately sprawled out like a starfish, blinking up at the ceiling with glassy, unfocused eyes.

"You’re a mess," he muttered, though there wasn't a drop of malice in it.

He dropped to a crouch at the foot of the bed. He took your ankles in his calloused hands, gently tugging the lace knots off.

"How much did you actually drink? Because I lost count after the third round of tequila, and I'm pretty sure you started doing shots with the bartender's cousin at some point."

"He had a nice face," you moped, kicking a foot weakly as the second shoe came off. "But the steak... it was a tragedy, Frankie. A goddamn crime against nature."

"Total tragedy. Call the cops," he teased, tossing your shoes into the corner.

He crawled up the bed slightly, hovering over you to pull the duvet out from under your legs. As he moved to settle you in, a stray lock of hair fell across your face, sticking to your lips. Frankie paused, his expression softening into something tender. With a steady hand, he reached out and tucked the hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering just for a second against your temple.

"Go to sleep, you drunk idiot," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your heart skip, even through the tequila haze. "I'll be in the kitchen. If you throw up, try to aim for the floor, not the rug. It's a nice rug."

"Stake..." you whispered one last time, your eyes finally fluttering shut.

"Yeah," he sighed, standing up and looking down at you with a lopsided, weary grin. "The best damn steak in the city. I promise."