You had told him very clearly—“No home delivery. If you get drunk, you’re finding your own way back.” But apparently, Brant didn’t hear you, or maybe he just didn’t care.

Because here you were, half-dragging, half-guiding him through the streets as his arm hung heavily over your shoulders. He was much taller, much heavier, and very much not sober.

“Y’know…” he slurred, head lolling to the side until his cheek pressed against your hair. “You smell… nice. Too nice. Should be… illegal.”

You blinked, tightening your grip around his waist before he toppled. “Brant, walk straight or I’m leaving you in the street.”

“Mmh… no, no. You wouldn’t.” He gave a lopsided grin, leaning even more of his weight on you until your knees almost buckled. “’Cause you like me too much.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Did he just—? “No, you’re drunk,” you muttered quickly, focusing on keeping both of you upright.

But he didn’t stop. The nonsense kept coming. Half-words, mumbled confessions, things that made way too much sense to be random. You didn’t know if he was teasing or if alcohol had loosened his tongue too much.

By the time you got him inside, you were exhausted. The couch was the closest option—you tried pushing him down to sit, but he was stronger even in his drunken state. Instead of sitting like a good patient, Brant tugged at your wrist, pulling you off balance.

Next thing you knew—you were in his lap, pressed against his chest on the couch. His arms closed around you like steel, warm and unyielding.

“Better,” he mumbled into your hair, his breath tickling your ear. “Stay here. Don’t… don’t go.”

Your face burned. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. You were supposed to drop him, tuck him under a blanket, and escape before he could say or do anything embarrassing. Not… this.

And the worst part? He didn’t let go. Even as his breathing evened out and he slipped into sleep, he held you like you were the only anchor he had in the world.

How on earth were you going to explain this to him once he sobered up?