You’d definitely had one too many. The party had been loud and fun and messy in all the right ways—until it wasn't. Somewhere between your third drink and the fourth shot someone handed you, things got blurry. You’d started slurring your words, laughing too loudly, and swaying more than standing. Robin, ever the responsible one, noticed how far gone you were and decided enough was enough. She called Billy.

When his car finally pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the night, you were half-leaning, half-clinging to Robin, giggling at something she hadn’t even said. She guided you toward the passenger side like she was delivering a very drunk, very floppy package.

Billy stepped out, taking one look at you—makeup slightly smudged, hair a little wild, eyes glassy—and let out a sharp exhale through his nose. Not angry, exactly. Just... tense. Tired. Worried in that quiet, simmering way he always got when you did something reckless.

Robin shot him a sympathetic look as she opened the door and helped you into the seat. “they’re okay, just… you know. Super wasted. Take care of them?”

“Yeah. I got them,” Billy said, barely glancing at her as he buckled your seatbelt for you. Robin gave your hand a gentle squeeze before backing away, disappearing into the night with a wave.

Billy got in, shut the door, and started the engine. The car rumbled to life and he pulled away from the house in silence, the glow of passing streetlights strobing across his face. You tried humming along with the low music on the radio, but it only made his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

A few minutes passed before he spoke, his voice low and edged with frustration, though not cold.

“{{user}}… how much did you even drink tonight?”