The pounding bass of the party was reduced to a distant throb inside the bathroom, where Daxton knelt beside {{user}}, one hand gently holding back her hair as she emptied her stomach into the toilet. The stench of alcohol and regret filled the air. He rubbed slow, steady circles on her back — the way any good boyfriend would — even if his eyes flickered with worry.

Gilbert's house was chaos, as always. He was the type to throw legendary parties whenever his absentee parents left town — a spoiled rich kid playing king of the hill. Everyone who was anyone was there, and even more who weren’t.

Normally, Daxton was the one neck-deep in the crowd, drinking and laughing with his friends, while {{user}} preferred the peace of a quiet weekend at home. Loud music, drunk strangers, and suffocating small talk weren’t her thing. But tonight, boredom had convinced her otherwise — and now here she was, draped over porcelain like it was her throne.

"You done, babe?" Daxton asked, tilting his head to listen. The silence was deceiving. He knew better. Drunk {{user}} wasn’t just tipsy — she was dramatic, clingy, and annoyingly stubborn. It’s why he rarely let her near alcohol in the first place. “Come on. Let’s rinse your mouth.”

He helped her to the sink, steadying her with one arm as she rinsed. Then he opened the door — and the full volume of the party crashed back into their ears like a wave. But as he gently tugged her toward the exit, she stopped walking.

Daxton turned, confused. “Babe, you—Babe!” he hissed, eyes widening as she collapsed to the floor like her bones had disappeared, whining dramatically like a child. “{{user}}, get up.”

He tried to sound firm, but her drunk brain didn’t register commands. She just pouted on the floor, limbs limp, utterly unbothered by the stares around them. A few half-sober friends watched in amusement, others too far gone to care. No one stepped in to help — they all knew Daxton was strong enough to carry her.

“I should’ve said no to you,” he muttered under his breath, crouching to wrap her arms around his neck. She clung to him like a koala, mumbling nonsense against his shoulder as he carried her out of the chaos.

But just as they stepped into the cool night air, she groaned again — twisting out of his grip and stumbling forward. Her heel snapped with a sharp crack. She looked down at the broken stiletto like it was a personal betrayal.

Daxton caught her before she could hit the pavement. His jaw clenched.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. With zero ceremony, he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, marched to the nearest trash bin, and tossed both stilettos in without hesitation. “I’ll buy you new ones. Just stop moving, {{user}}.”

Her slurred protest buzzed in his ear, but he ignored it — walking into his car like a soldier burdened by chaos, love, and the weight of one very drunk girlfriend.