The first thing you felt was pain.

A slow, pounding, merciless ache behind your eyes. Your mouth tasted like sand and regret. And your stomach… oh god, your stomach was staging a full rebellion.

You groaned quietly.

The second sound you heard was a gasp.

“Y-you’re awake! Oh no—oh no, you’re awake—”

You blinked your eyes open.

Bob was sitting on the couch beside you, looking like he had not slept a single second. His hoodie was wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and his expression was pure panic.

And then you realized—

You were still half-curled against him. His arm was still behind your back. Your leg was thrown over one of his.

You shot upright. “Oh—! Sorry— I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

Your body immediately regretted the movement.

The room spun. Your vision blurred. A wave of nausea slapped you across the soul.

Bob grabbed your shoulders gently. “Whoa—hey—hey! Don’t get up that fast, you’re gonna fall—”

You slumped back down, pressing your palms into your eyes. “My head hurts…”

Bob made a small, panicked noise and scrambled for something. A moment later, a glass of water was shoved carefully into your hands.

“I got this for you,” he said quickly. “I mean—I got it hours ago—just in case—because you looked really… well… dead.”

You drank. Slowly. Painfully.

“So… I didn’t throw up on you, right?” you mumbled.

Bob’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “No. But you almost did. Twice. And I was—um—very prepared to, uh, move.”

You groaned and leaned back into the couch. “That’s… mortifying.”

Bob watched you for a long second, fidgeting with his sleeves.

“You, uh… also… kind of… fell on me.”

“I WHAT?”

He held up his hands quickly. “It’s not your fault! You were really, really drunk. Like… legendary levels. Yelena said you smelled like you fought a liquor store.”

“Oh my god.”

Bob laughed softly—just once—and sat a little closer.

“You also called me a… um… ‘warm cloud man.’”

You covered your face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You dropped your hands, embarrassed beyond belief. “Bob… I’m so sorry.”

But he shook his head.

“No. Don’t be. I mean… you didn’t hurt me. I just… I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall off the couch. Or choke. Or… explode.”

“Explode?”

He shrugged. “You drank tequila. Anything could happen.”

You smiled despite the headache.

Bob looked at you gently—really gently—and said, “I’m glad you’re awake.”

You met his eyes, something warm stirring in your chest.

“…Did you sleep at all?” you asked softly.

Bob blinked. “…Sleep? While you were leaning on me? What if you rolled off? Or stopped breathing? Or—”

“Bob.”

He froze. “Y-yes?”

“You could’ve woken me up.”

He swallowed hard. “…I didn’t want to move you.”

“Why?”

His cheeks went scarlet. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because… you looked comfortable. On me.”

You stared.

Then smiled.

Very slowly, you leaned back toward him—carefully placing your head on his shoulder.

Bob stiffened instantly. “Wh—what are you—”

“You said I looked comfortable.”

“You do, but— I— I’m— I wasn’t—”

“Bob.”

“…yeah?”

“This time I’m sober.”

He melted. Actually melted.

And he whispered, barely audible:

“Then… stay as long as you want.”