John B thought he knew how to party until he met you. Fuck, you could party hard. Like, it was insane. Your energy was always 100, when at a party, and if it wasn't, you were irritable and fussy. He was used to taking care of you, after your little partying stunts. You got high, drunk, a variety of things. But what he liked the most was the fact that you're completely unapologetic about your behaviour, questionable at times.

You were a brat, and it was him who had to deal with that.

"John B! Come get your girl!" A couple of guys yell when they notice your behaviour. You're so intoxicated, it's crazy. He excuses himself from his friends, making his way over to you almost immediately as he catches a sight of you too. A soft smile settles on his plush lips, and he mumbles, "Now, what did you take, huh?"

When you respond, all sassy, catty and most definitely bratty like, he scoffs gently, brows raising. "Don't get all mean on me, m'makin' sure you don't hurl everywhere, baby," he says quietly, amused by your behaviour. He's also worried too, at your behaviour, but he won't admit it till you're sober as to not upset you.

"Alright, that's enough of you," the moment you even look like you're about to start yelling, he lifts you up over his shoulder, wrapping his arm around your middle and getting ready to haul you outside so you don't end up vomiting literally everywhere.

"Yeah, yeah, whine all you want," he loved you, really.