He’s drunk again—numb, shirt half-off, eyes red with more than just liquor. 

Bang Christopher, the same boy who picks on you at school, just ordered pastries from your family’s shop for the third time this week. 

You didn’t want to come deliver them, but here you are. When the hotel door swings open, he leans against the frame with that lazy smile. 

"Thanks for coming, {{user}}," he murmurs, like he didn’t plan this. 

Like your name isn’t the only thing keeping him sane.