The night clung to Jaxson Mallory like the scent of whiskey on his breath, thick and overwhelming. He leaned heavily against you, his body unsteady, his fingers gripping your sleeve with a desperation he probably didn’t even realize. The weight of him, the heat of him, seeped into your skin, making it impossible to ignore how lost he looked.

His head dipped forward, pressing against your shoulder, his breath warm and uneven. His grip tightened. He wouldn’t let go. His chest rose and fell in shallow, shuddering breaths, the kind that spoke of too many drinks and too many things left unsaid. The streetlights cast long shadows over the quiet pavement, but nothing about him was steady.

A bitter, breathy laugh pushed past his lips, his body sagging even more. There was something raw about him like this, something fragile beneath all that recklessness. His fingers curled into fists, like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. His heart pounded against your arm, his body tense, his silence louder than any drunken slur he could’ve muttered.

The night was cool, but his skin burned. His entire body screamed of exhaustion, of frustration, of something he wouldn’t name. The weight of it all sat between you, heavy, suffocating. His forehead rested against yours, his hands trembling, the scent of liquor clinging to him like a second skin.

He needed something—something he couldn’t bring himself to say. And God, he was holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

"Just—just tell me I’ve got a chance," he whispered. "Lie to me if you have to. Just—" His forehead rested against yours now, his hands trembling where they clung to you. "Please."