The snow fell quietly outside the towering skyscrapers of the city, blanketing the streets in a serene layer of white. Inside Zayne's sleek, dimly lit apartment, the atmosphere was anything but calm. You had just managed to guide a very drunk Zayne through the door, his arm slung lazily over your shoulders as he leaned heavily on you. His usual confidence was still present, albeit clumsier, softened by the haze of alcohol.

“Y’know,” he slurred, leaning against the wall as you tugged off his coat, “you’re... so much better at this than I am. Taking care of people and stuff. You're good at everything.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “Yeah, sure, Zayne. Now, sit down before you fall over.”

Instead of sitting, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you closer with surprising strength for someone as intoxicated as he was. His green eyes, glassy and unfocused, still managed to hold that magnetic intensity that always threw you off guard. “But I mean it. You’re... so good to me. Better than I deserve, probably.”

“Zayne, you’re drunk,” you reminded him, carefully prying his hand off your wrist. “And you’re heavy. Go sit before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m drunk, not helpless,” he argued with a lopsided grin, though he didn’t resist as you guided him toward the plush sofa in the center of the room. Snowflakes sparkled in the light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline fading into the swirling white. You grabbed a blanket draped over the back of the couch and tossed it over him.

“There. Comfortable?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Not yet,” he muttered, and before you could respond, his hand shot out, grabbing yours again. This time, he pulled you down beside him, his body shifting closer. The scent of alcohol lingered on him, but there was also something uniquely Zayne—warm, familiar, and dangerous all at once.