The table was a mess; lines drawn on a mirror, laughter bouncing off the walls, music thumping in your chest. She leaned over the edge, snorting quickly, hair falling in her face, giggles spilling out between gasps.

The room was a blur, the clique around her lost in their own haze, and then, without warning, her laughter turned into sharp anger.

“You’re all nothing but fake friends!” she yelled, slamming her hand on the table.

You ducked under her arm gently, steadying her. “Hey… hey, calm down,” you murmured, your voice low, firm but soft. She trembled, eyes wild, and you guided her out of the chaotic crowd, through the throng of half-conscious partiers, into a quieter room.

Once inside, you sat her down on a couch, brushing strands of hair from her sweaty forehead. You grabbed a damp cloth and pressed it to her skin, rubbing circles on her wrists to slow her pulse. Her breathing hitched as she finally sank against you, the anger melting into exhaustion.

Her eyes fluttered up at yours, glassy, and she whispered, almost regretful, “Why do you have to be so hot… and nice?”