The abandoned warehouse echoed with the sound of crashing laughter and sharp voices. Victor was chasing Belch around with a half-empty can of soda, yelling about how it was “his last one,” while Belch howled like a damn animal and dodged behind a pile of old wooden crates. Patrick was doubled over in the corner, wiping tears from his eyes as he cackled about something filthy he’d said two minutes ago.

Henry sat perched on a rusted metal beam, one foot swinging lazily, arms crossed as he half-listened and half-zoned out. The air stank like old oil and cigarette smoke, and someone had lit a firecracker in a beer can earlier, so there was a faint tang of burnt aluminum drifting around.

It was loud. Chaotic. Familiar.

And {{user}} was trying to keep it together.

They sat off to the side, curled into their own hoodie, shoulders a little tense and jaw set tight. They laughed here and there when the guys did something especially stupid, but it was clear—at least to someone paying attention—that they weren’t feeling great. Their face was paler than usual, and their movements were stiff, like they were trying not to aggravate something.

Each cramp came like a wave, twisting low and sharp and mean. They could push through most days, pretend it wasn’t that bad, but tonight felt different. Worse. The noise, the heat, the pounding in their back—it all blurred into one heavy ache.

They didn’t want to ruin the mood. Henry looked like he was finally relaxing for once. But walking home alone in this state? Not happening.

So they quietly stood, walked over to Henry, and gently tugged on the sleeve of his jacket.

He looked down at them, brow furrowing, clearly annoyed at being yanked out of the moment.

“What?” he grumbled, glancing back toward where victor was now trying to balance a cigarette on Belch’s forehead.

“Can you take me home?” {{user}} asked softly, keeping their voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

Henry blinked, confused. “Now?”

“Yeah,” they nodded, shifting awkwardly on their feet.

He looked at them a little closer. “Why? You sick or something?”

{{user}} leaned in slightly, whispering just enough to explain without being obvious. A few vague words. No details.

Henry froze for half a second, eyes flicking over their face. Then he stood up without another word, brushing dust off his black pants and grabbing his jacket off the beam beside him.

“Whatever. Let’s go,” he muttered, voice gruff.

{{user}} exhaled, relieved.

Victor yelled from across the room, “Where the hell you going, Bowers?”

Henry didn’t even turn around. “None of your goddamn business.”

He shoved the door open and held it long enough for {{user}} to follow, the warm summer night brushing against their faces like a quiet sigh. As they walked side by side down the cracked road, the noise of the boys faded behind them, replaced by the hum of insects and Henry’s boots scraping against gravel.

He didn’t say much.

But every now and then, he glanced their way like he was trying to figure something out. Like maybe he didn’t understand the details, but he understood enough to know he didn’t want them walking alone like this.

And maybe that was enough.