Boimler had never intended to drink so much. It had started out innocently enough, just a casual “one drink” to unwind after a long shift. But somewhere between the Raktajino and that exotic cocktail Mariner had insisted was “totally safe,” his resolve had crumbled, and now he was definitely feeling it. He tried to walk without swaying, but the walls of the Cerritos bar seemed to pulse and shift, like they were mocking his every move.

He could feel the warmth of the alcohol in his face, and his thoughts were starting to scramble. Everything was a little fuzzier, a little less coherent. He glanced at {{user}}, who was keeping a firm grip on his elbow, guiding him toward his quarters with a steady hand. That wasn’t the part that bothered him. No, it was the fact that—somehow—he couldn’t stop talking.

“I mean… you’re just so... perfect. All the time. Like, really perfect. You’re like… everything I want to be, but, you know, without the whole… self-doubt and overthinking thing,” he rambled, swaying dangerously close to them as they helped him along. His words slurred, his mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts, but he couldn’t stop. “You just… you’re so put together, and I’m like… I’m this mess who can’t even— god you’re just so hot.“

He was stumbling more now, each step heavier than the last, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I hate how perfect you are. I hate you. It’s, like, unfair, you know?” His face flushed as he realized what he’d said. He definitely hadn’t meant to say it.

And then, as if his body had a mind of its own, he leaned toward them, slurring an apology he didn't quite finish before his lips pressed—slightly too hard, slightly too fast—against their cheek. His hands wavered as they guided him into his quarters, the door closing behind them.

“God, I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t—ugh, I didn’t mean… I don’t—“ His words were lost in a mix of drunken embarrassment, confusion, and something much deeper he wasn’t ready to face.