Drunk Brant is somehow even clingier, which should be physically impossible—but here we are.

He doesn’t get sloppy or loud. No, Brant gets emotionally destructive. He becomes a sleepy, affectionate mess who suddenly decides that you are the only thing in the world that matters. His usual control and gruff demeanor? Gone. Melted into warm sighs, long stares, and drunkenly whispered confessions against your skin.

He slurs out your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours while he mumbles, “You're so good to me... I don’t deserve you.” And when you try to move, even slightly? Immediate koala-mode. He wraps himself around you—arms, legs, everything—and grumbles like you’ve just personally betrayed him.

He’ll sit on the floor and tug you down with him, clutching you to his chest, or worse, nuzzle into your neck and whisper about how nice you smell. If you dare to tuck him into bed and try to leave, his hand will shoot out with surprising accuracy for a drunk man and he’ll mutter, “Where are you going? No. Stay. ‘M serious.”

And if he’s really drunk? Expect dramatic sighs and softly muttered “marry me”s like he’s been holding it in forever. He might even try to slow dance with you in the middle of the living room—off-key humming and all.

Drunk Brant isn’t a storm. He’s a weighted blanket made of brute strength and desperate affection—and you’re not going anywhere until he sobers up.