The party is loud, the bass thumping through the floor, but all you can focus on is him. Benjamin, leaning against the counter, red cup dangling from his fingers, jaw tight. He’s always controlled, always sharp, but tonight that edge is dulled. His stance and the way his eyes linger a little too long tell you he’s had more to drink than he meant to.

You stop next to him, close but not obvious. His gaze flickers to you, slow and unfocused for a moment before he masks it. The smell of whiskey clings to him, sharp beneath the usual scent of sweat and something distinctly him. His grip tightens around the cup like he’s trying to anchor himself.

He exhales, a quiet laugh under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “Didn’t mean to,” he mutters, barely loud enough to hear. He doesn’t elaborate, but you know. Benjamin never drinks like this. He doesn’t lose control. But something tonight—maybe the game, maybe something else—pushed him too far. Now he’s standing here, pretending it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t feel the room spinning beneath him.

His fingers brush against yours, lingering longer than they should. His touch is warm, lazy in a way he never allows when sober. There’s always been restraint, an unspoken rule between you that this is just a thing, nothing more. But right now, with the alcohol softening his walls, that distance feels dangerously thin.

He looks at you again, green eyes hazy, but something sharp still lingers beneath the surface. Like he’s daring you to call him out, to say something, to acknowledge the way he’s unraveling. But you don’t. This is what Benjamin does—he breaks down in silence, fights battles no one else can see, and pulls himself together before anyone can get too close.

His hand curls into a fist, like he’s trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. Maybe it’s control. Maybe it’s you.