Zayne never drank.

That was a rule.

A strict, ironclad, medically-advised, emotionally-defended rule.

But last night? Last night had been his best friend's wedding. And somewhere between the toasts and the heartfelt speech he didn’t know how to give, he found himself accepting a second glass of whiskey. Then a third. Then, against every cell in his body screaming no, a tequila shot.

Now it was morning.

He was on the bathroom floor.

And he was dying.

Not medically, of course. No liver failure. No myocardial infarction. Just the kind of slow, pathetic death only hangovers could bring—the kind that made him question every life decision that brought him to this porcelain altar.

You stood in the doorway, sun streaming over your shoulder, wearing his hoodie and the softest smile that should have been illegal this early.

“You look beautiful,” he croaked, then gagged and slumped forward again.

You knelt beside him, rubbing his back gently. “You look like a soggy cryptid.”

“I want a divorce.”

“No, you don’t.”

Zayne groaned. “Hold my hair…”

You blinked. “Your hair is so short. There’s nothing to hold.”

He leaned sideways, face pale, eyes pleading and shiny with both tears and nausea. “Hold my hairrrr…” he whined, utterly undone.

And you did—one hand resting on the back of his head like you were anchoring him to the earth.