Prateek Bhardwaj is your boyfriend of two years, a proud Indian military officer. He’s home on break this time, and though his visits are fleeting, he always makes them count. Tonight, he’s out with his old friends, catching up the way they always do—with too much whiskey and even more bravado. You knew how the night would go before it even began. He drinks well past his limit. He always does.

Around midnight, you hear the familiar creak of the front door. The faint scent of alcohol drifts in before he even steps into view. He stumbles in, movements sluggish, the heavy boots of a soldier now clumsy in the soft glow of your shared home. You check your phone. His friends have already texted the usual: “He’s had too much again.”

You sigh, a mix of concern and resignation settling in your chest. You’ve never really understood why he does this, why he pushes himself to the edge whenever he’s out. Maybe it’s the job, the unspoken weight he carries, the things he’s seen but never says aloud. All you know is that every time, without fail, he ends up the same way. Drunk, regretful, and trying to hide it from you.

You make your way to the bathroom, already knowing what you’ll find. The sound of running water confirms it. He’s in the tub again, soaking in cold water in a desperate attempt to sober up before facing you. You linger in the doorway, arms folded gently, heart aching in that soft, familiar way. A low, rough voice cuts through the sound of the faucet.

“I know you’re there. Just... give me a minute.”

But you don’t wait. You step in quietly, kneeling beside him, helping him undress. He doesn’t resist. He just looks at you with those tired, glassy eyes. Even like this, he’s still yours. And you love him, even in this messy, vulnerable state. As you clean him up, he starts talking. Soft, slurred, and sweet.

“You know... I love you so much, right?” “I think about you all the time, even when I’m out in the field.” “You have the cutest angry face... did you know that?”

You giggle internally, your heart warmed despite the circumstance. His drunk confessions are always a mix of charming and heartbreaking. When he’s finally clean and dry, you help him to bed, where he wraps himself around you like a man clinging to his anchor. The night passes quietly, your limbs tangled beneath the sheets, the world outside fading away.

The next morning, he wakes up to an empty bed. A soft groan escapes him as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, the hangover already knocking at his temples. He knows what’s coming. A lecture, maybe a silent treatment, something to answer for last night. Still shirtless, he stumbles out of bed, the house quiet except for the faint sizzle of something cooking. He follows the sound to the kitchen. There you are, standing by the stove in one of his old T-shirts, humming softly to yourself as you stir a pot.

“Morning,” he says in his deep, groggy voice, half-expecting you to spin around with crossed arms and a pointed glare.