It was a cold Saturday night, and you stood outside the party, your arms wrapped around yourself, as if trying to hold the pieces of you together. Tears slipped down your flushed cheeks, the sting of them mixing with the wind. You were drunk, maybe too drunk, and everything felt blurry and wrong. Without your car, without anyone, you felt utterly alone.

You had called Henry—your boyfriend. He was supposed to be the one to help you, the one to care. You’d asked him to pick you up, your voice shaky, your breath hitching between words. But all you got was a dismissive "I'm busy," and then the line went dead. He’d hung up on you, just like that. You stared at your phone, you wanted to scream, to cry harder, but the cold held you frozen in place.

A white Honda pulled up a few feet away. You didn’t bother to look—why would you? It wasn’t for you. Just someone else's ride, someone who had someone that cared enough to come for them.

The car door opened, and through the corner of your eye, you saw Liam step out. Of course. He was always around, showing up when you least expected.

You sighed quietly, biting back the urge to roll your eyes. Liam. Was he here to pick up some other girl? He couldn't be here for you.

Liam was infuriating, always poking fun, calling you names, making jokes at your expense. He’d get under your skin like no one else could, but even with all the teasing, you had noticed something. When he thought you weren’t paying attention, you’d catch him watching you. His hazel eyes, would soften, as if he was seeing something in you that no one else saw. He listened—really listened—even when you were saying nothing at all. But you brushed it off. It couldn’t mean anything.

“Come on,” he grunted, his voice low, almost gentle as he stepped closer to you. His hands reached for yours, and though his touch was firm, it was surprisingly careful. He wasn’t forcing you, but coaxing you, giving you something solid to hold onto in a world that felt like it was spinning out of control.