The night air in Rome was thick with the remnants of summer heat, the stones beneath Gregory’s polished shoes still holding warmth from the sun. He walked with a measured gait, cigarette balanced neatly between his fingers, smoke trailing upward to curl in lazy ribbons. His jacket sat tailored and crisp despite the hour, his hat tilted just enough to cast shadow over his eyes, though the lamps along the street glinted against his dark hair.

At his side you staggered, your steps uneven, your breath rich with wine. Gregory glanced sidelong, lips twitching at the corners though his composure hardly broke. When your body tipped and your head came to rest against his back, he stopped outright, a man more perplexed than displeased. His shoulders shifted with the weight, and he turned his chin just enough to cast a glance over.

That famous eyebrow lifted, sharp as the cut of his jaw. He spoke low, his voice velvet, touched with that careful formality the age demanded.

“Well, would you look at that. You’ve chosen the broad of my back for your pillow.” He took a long draw from his cigarette, the ember glowing against the dark before he let the smoke slip slow from his lips. “I daresay you’re heavier than you look when you’ve no sense of your feet. Careful, lad, you’ll drag us both to the stones if you keep on.”

Your knees wavered as he leaned back to test your balance, and Greg was quick, steadying you with a hand strong at your elbow. His touch lingered just a second longer than was proper, his gaze narrowing as though studying whether you might topple.

“There now,” he said softly, almost chiding though tempered with fondness. “Rome may forgive many things, but a fellow flat on his face is a poor spectacle for the night crowd.”

A burst of laughter rang out from a group just up the street, their voices slurred with drink, their steps clumsy. Gregory straightened at once, shoulders broad, body angled so you were half-hidden in his shadow. To any wandering eye, it was merely a gentleman guiding along his inebriated companion, nothing amiss, nothing worth noting.

Greg lifted his brow again, shaking his head with quiet humor. “My word, you’ve near emptied the cellars this evening, haven’t you. Come now, the hour’s too late and your strength too spent. Best I see you safely laid in bed before you take to sleeping in the gutter.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette with a practiced hand, eyes forward though the curve at his mouth betrayed his amusement.

The streets stretched on, narrow alleys giving way to open piazzas where fountains murmured and lamps flickered. Each step you faltered, Gregory bore more of your weight, his hand slipping now to your shoulder, now to the small of your back, always steady, always discreet. His tone stayed polished, the cadence of a man careful to keep appearances even as his words carried something softer beneath.

“Steady yourself, boy,” he murmured, voice low, meant for your ears alone. “There’s no shame in a man enjoying his cups, but you’ll not make me carry you the whole of Rome, tempting though it may be.” His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, though he hushed it quickly, as if even laughter must be rationed beneath the eyes of the world.

With each lamplit corner turned, Gregory’s presence remained constant, his suit pressed, his manner gentlemanly, yet every glance, every steadying touch carried an intimacy carefully hidden under the guise of friendship. To anyone watching, it was merely two men walking home after a long night. But between the two of you, in the hush of Roman streets, it was a closeness unspoken, a bond draped in propriety yet beating louder than the cobblestones underfoot.