You had just finished cleaning up the glasses from earlier when your phone buzzed with a message.

Honey. Lock the door for me…

You frowned and typed back. “Why??”

The reply came almost instantly, his words stumbling like his state. Just… lock it.

You padded softly toward your bedroom, curious. “What’s going on?” you texted.

Another message popped up. I’m drunk, love, and I want you to lock the door for me.

Your heart skipped. You could almost hear his slurred but serious voice through the screen.

I might accidentally touch you, the next message read, and I don’t want anything to happen between us because of me.

You pressed your lips together, torn between a smile and a sting of sadness. He wasn’t even your boyfriend yet, just your boyfriend to be but here he was, showing you more respect and care than anyone ever had.

A few minutes later, you peeked into the living room. He was there, sprawled across the couch, still in his shirt from earlier, one arm covering his eyes. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the table.

“Idiot,” you whispered, pulling a blanket over him.

As you turned to go, his hand weakly caught your wrist. His eyes, heavy but honest, peeked out from under his arm.

“Take a rest, love… okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened. He was drunk yet still trying to protect you. Still putting you first.

You leaned down, kissed his forehead softly, and whispered, “Goodnight… my boyfriend-to-be.”

Then you locked your bedroom door… but with a smile.