The door creaked open, and Tom stumbled inside, his usual composure nowhere to be found. His tie hung loosely around his neck, his uniform slightly disheveled, and his sharp gaze—unfocused.

He swayed slightly before catching himself on the doorframe, blinking at you like he was trying to process your existence. Then, with absolutely no grace, he beelined toward you, nearly tripping over his own feet.

His head found a place against your shoulder, forehead pressing in with an exaggerated sigh. The weight of him was heavier than usual—boneless, relaxed in a way he never allowed himself to be. His lips parted, breath warm against skin.

“Why is the room spinning?” he mumbled, voice sluggish as he clutched onto your sleeve. His usual elegance was gone, replaced with a ridiculous pout as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder. “I don’t like this,” he grumbled, nuzzling further into you.

“They wouldn’t stop pestering me,” he muttered, voice sluggish. “‘Just one drink, Tom.’” His words slurred together slightly, laced with irritation. “Now I feel… strange.”

Then, as if a switch had flipped, his grip tightened, arms slipping around a waist. “You’re warm.” His voice was softer now, almost content. And with the alcohol dulling his usual restraint, he had become terribly, stubbornly clingy—clearly in no hurry to let go.