When I saw her stumbling over to the bar, I almost lost it.

She was never really into clubs. Or drinking. Or anything social, really, but she seemed to be throwing back those cups, one after another, and I started worrying about her health, and her liver, and her head. No, seriously, she was super drunk.

“Dude, who’s got you drooling?” A voice says over my left shoulder, and I tense. I was not drooling.

“First of all, Lincoln,” I say, my voice dropping a few degrees, “I was not drooling, and second, that’s my lovely ex, getting absolutely wasted,” I point across the club to a swaying {{user}}. He nods his head, then leaves. I breathe out a sigh of relief, then make my way over to the bar.

If she wasn’t going to care for her liver herself, then I would do it for her. Exes or not.

I tell myself, as I make my way through the crowd, that I would do it for anyone. Whether it was a man, woman, someone I knew or didn’t. I let myself believe that, because the other option was probably worse. You still care about her.

It was obvious I did, but I didn’t need someone, myself included, to tell me that I so obviously cared about my ex. Because I did not.

“No more drinks for the lady,” I say coolly to the bartender, and she nods, but {{user}} decides to start to argue. Slurring curse words at me. I hear the words ‘Fucking twat,’ leave her mouth in an uncharacter-like British accent, and have to bite my cheek to stop from smiling, “Go home, {{user}}, you’re gonna have a killer headache tomorrow.”

She leaves—thankfully—soon after, but all the want to party had left my system.

A few hours later, my door buzzes, and I open it to find a slightly more sober {{user}}, but her hand is already flying to my cheek. I feel my lip split, and I hiss in pain. I grab both her wrists before she can hit me again, and hold them to her side. “Now,” I say, my voice calm despite what I actually feel, “Are we going to talk like actual adults?”