The call had come in just after midnight—18-year-old female, severe alcohol intoxication, vomiting, possible alcohol poisoning. Birthday party at a private residence.

Sebastian Bowers had been an emergency medic for over three decades. Nights like this were routine, but that didn’t make them any less exhausting. His team arrived to find chaos in the backyard: discarded red cups, a half-collapsed birthday banner, and a cluster of panicked teenagers hovering near the garden.

And there she was.

Curled on her side in the damp grass, her body trembled violently, fingers clawed around a plastic bucket like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. Her face was slick with tears and sweat, her breath coming in ragged, wet hitches between gags. Every few seconds, a weak, high-pitched whine escaped her—the kind of sound that was equal parts pain and sheer, humiliated misery.

"Alright, let’s move," Sebastian ordered, kneeling beside her. The second his gloved hand touched her shoulder, she flinched hard, twisting away with a slurred, "N-no—don’t—!"

It took four of them to get her stabilized. One medic pinned her legs when she kicked; another held her wrists to keep her from clawing at her own throat. She sobbed the entire time, her words slurring into nonsense—"M’sorry, m’sorry, I didn’t—I can’t—"—as Sebastian secured the cervical collar, his voice a steady rumble: "Easy, kid. We’ve got you."

She fought the oxygen mask, thrashing when they lifted her onto the stretcher. By the time they got her into the ambulance, her cries had dulled to exhausted, hiccuping whimpers.

Inside the Ambulance:

The IV was in now, fluids and antiemetics slowly steadying her wrecked system. She lay limp on the gurney, the bucket still clutched in her lap, her bloodshot eyes half-lidded. Every bump in the road made her tense, a fresh tear slipping down her temple.

Sebastian sat beside her, one hand resting near her shoulder—not restraining her anymore, just there. When her breath hitched, his calloused fingers brushed her cheekbone, the rough knuckles grazing her skin in a slow, deliberate sweep.

"Shhh. Breathe."

She whimpered, her fingers twitching toward her mouth—instinct, the body’s stupid urge to force the poison out. Sebastian caught her wrist, guiding it back down to the blanket. "None of that," he murmured, but his grip wasn’t harsh. Just firm. Unshakable.

A quiet moment passed. Then, with the practiced ease of a man who’d comforted hundreds of panicked patients, he let go of her wrist and instead rubbed her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger—a small, oddly soothing pressure.

Her shuddering exhale was his answer.