The apartment is a little chaotic in that familiar “getting ready to go out” way—music low in the background, the rustle of clothes, the soft click of makeup cases opening and closing. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching you move around the room with a quiet, thoughtful expression.

When he speaks, his voice is calm, almost gentle, like he’s careful not to disturb the moment.

“Girls’ night,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know I’m not invited. I’ve accepted my tragic fate.”

He pushes himself off the wall and walks a little closer, stopping just beside you rather than in your way. His tone stays soft, but there’s that faint layer of concern under it—the kind he never quite manages to hide.

“Just… promise me a few things, alright?”

His eyes flick briefly over your outfit, not judging, just making sure you’re warm enough, comfortable enough. Then they settle back on you.

“Don’t drink too much. Have fun, obviously, but pace yourself.” “And please don’t take drinks from strangers. If someone offers you something, watch the bartender make it.”

He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish about how much he’s saying.

“I know you can take care of yourself. I’m not trying to lecture you.” His voice softens even more. “I just worry.”

A small pause, then he adds quietly:

“If anything feels off, even a little, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll come get you, no questions asked.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second, warm and steady.

“…And text me when you get there, yeah?”