The bar was dimly lit, hazy with soft neon reds and blues that pulsed faintly from a cheap sign above the counter. Music thumped low, just enough to feel it under your ribs. The air smelled like cheap vodka, sweat, and bad decisions. It wasn’t his kind of place. Not even close.

Kenma kept his hoodie up, head down, weaving through bodies with his usual quiet reluctance. He never came to places like this unless he had a reason.

And tonight, he had one.

His eyes scanned the crowd, half-lidded but sharp. And there—at the far end of the bar, hunched over a drink she clearly didn’t need—was {{user}}.

He paused.

She was laughing at something the bartender said, her smile loose, off-kilter. Her elbow knocked her glass and some of the liquid spilled, but she just blinked at it like it was someone else’s mess.

Kenma’s jaw clenched.

He hated this.

Not her. Never her. But this version of her—slurred speech, unfocused eyes, surrounded by strangers who didn’t know her the way he did. Who didn’t know what her laugh usually sounded like. Or how sharp her wit was when she wasn’t three drinks past her limit.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and walked over.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low but firm.

She turned, slowly. Her eyes lit up.

“Kenny!” she practically yelled, grinning like she’d just seen her favorite person on Earth.

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at her — really looked at her — taking in the redness in her cheeks, the slight sway in her seat, the emptiness behind her usual sparkle.

“You’re drunk.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just a little tipsy.”

He scoffed softly. “You smell like regret.”

She pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Not trying to be.”

She leaned toward him then, elbow slipping on the sticky bar top. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he muttered, eyes flicking over her shoulder at a guy who’d been eyeing her for too long. His gaze hardened for a second before returning to her. “You always answer. I got worried.”

{{user}} blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice.

“Aw, you care.”

Kenma stared at her, expression unreadable.

“I’m taking you home,” he said flatly.

“Kenmaaa,” she whined, but didn’t resist when he gently pulled her up from the barstool. She swayed slightly, and his hand went instinctively to her waist to steady her. She leaned into him more than she needed to.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he warned, guiding her toward the door.

“I never knew you were so bossy when you're worried,” she mumbled, resting her head against his shoulder.

He didn’t reply. He just kept walking, jaw tight, eyes forward — the hand on her waist firm and steady.

Irritated? Yes.

But only because she scared him tonight.

And that feeling was worse than anything else.