He led you gently to the couch, his hand warm but steady on your back, guiding you down onto the cushions as though you were something fragile. The world swayed beneath you, the alcohol still humming in your veins, but his touch was an anchor, grounding you.

“Good lord…” he muttered under his breath, dropping to one knee in front of you. His fingers brushed against your ankle as he worked at your shoes, careful, unhurried, almost reverent. You couldn’t have managed it yourself even if you’d tried—your head was too foggy, your limbs too heavy.

You hadn’t planned to get this drunk. You never did. But trouble had a way of finding you, of pulling you into moments that spiraled far past your control. And yet, here he was again, steady where you faltered, the quiet constant to your chaos.

A few minutes later, he reappeared, one of his oversized sweaters in hand. He coaxed you into it with patience, sliding it over your arms and smoothing it down over your shoulders, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of him—soap, cedar, something you couldn’t name but knew by heart.

When he returned again, it was with a glass of water in one hand and painkillers in the other. He crouched down in front of you once more, offering them as though they were some small kind of salvation. His eyes softened when they met yours, and the edges of his mouth tugged into the faintest, worried smile.

“Babe,” he whispered, the word feather-light, as though saying it too loudly might break you.

There was no anger in his voice, no judgment. Just concern, quiet and unshakable. He wasn’t mad—he never was. He was simply here, always here, when you needed him most.