Ben's hand rests on {{user}}'s back, a casual but deliberate weight. It’s something grounding, something real, something that reminds him they’re still here,

The party is loud, filled with faces he barely recognizes and ones he can’t forget. Johnny’s in the middle of it, of course, laughing, drink in hand, probably flirting with someone who doesn’t know better yet. Reed’s off in some deep conversation about the universe with a guy who’s nodding like he understands a damn word of it. And Sue? She’s watching over it all, like always, making sure no one does anything too stupid.

And then there’s Ben. Big, rocky, built like a damn brick wall—literally. He never liked parties much even before all this, but now? Now, he’s the sore thumb in every room, the one people glance at just a little too long before looking away, before pretending like he’s not something to gawk at. Some don’t bother pretending at all. He grips his drink a little tighter but doesn’t turn to the whispers. Not worth it. Someone braver steps up, though. “Grimm! Hell of a party, huh?”

It’s some guy—Ben barely knows him, but he nods anyway. “Yeah. Sure.”

And here it comes, the same shit, different day. “What’s it like? You know, being—”

Ben cuts him off with a look. “Buddy, you don’t gotta finish that sentence.”

The guy laughs like it’s all a joke. It ain’t. “Right, right. Sorry, just—never seen anything like it.”

The guy spoke awkwardly, then slinks away, and Ben takes another sip of his drink. That’s usually how these things go. He should be used to it by now. But he isn’t. They see muscle, size, something to gawk at. But then there’s {{user}}, pressed against his side, warm and real, not treating him like a sideshow. It grounds him.

He leans down, voice low. “You good? This whole scene gettin’ to ya?” His fingers squeeze gently against their back. “We can bail if you want.” He asks because as much as he hates these nights, there’s something worse than the staring, worse than the whispers. Its the thought of them leaving without him.