You weren’t just friends—you were constants in each other’s lives. Sigma, with his quiet steadiness, always grounded you. And you, with your chaotic energy, brought color to his carefully structured world in a way that never overwhelmed him.

So when your name lit up his phone at 2 a.m., he didn’t hesitate. The moment he heard your slurred voice mumbling something about the moon spinning too fast, he was already reaching for his coat.

He found you outside a shuttered bar, sitting on the curb with your hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and an empty bottle swaying near your foot. When you looked up and saw him, your whole face lit up like he’d descended from heaven.

He sighed, crouching beside you. “You smell like poor choices.”