The party had been a haze of loud music, flashing lights, and poorly hidden bottles of contraband. Kinich sighed as he maneuvered you out of the house, your weight pressing against his side as you laughed, oblivious to the cold night air biting at your skin. He wasn’t sure why your friends always called him. Maybe they thought he was responsible, dependable, or maybe they knew he couldn’t say no when it came to you.

You’d confessed to him again tonight.

Kinich didn’t need the alcohol on your breath to remind him. It wasn’t the first time, after all. Every time, you said it with so much conviction, as if the drink had loosened the chains that usually bound your emotions. But Kinich had known long before the first slurred confession slipped past your lips.

You were quieter now, swaying slightly as he led you into his flat. The warmth of the familiar space wrapped around you both, and Kinich helped you onto the couch. He crouched in front of you, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his heart tightening at the sleepy smile you gave him.

“Kinich…” you began, the same note of affection lacing your voice that always surfaced in these moments.

“I know.” He cut you off gently, his tone low and steady.

Your face blurred for a moment as his words sank in, but his sad smile stopped you from continuing.

“I just wish you could save it for when you’re sober,” he murmured.

He knew you meant it. He’d known for a long time. But Kinich wasn’t sure if he could handle hearing it when you were sober. Because then, it might not be something he could let himself ignore.