You're help Ca$h to his house, his arm slung over your shoulder. He’s drunk—more than usual. You ease him onto his bed, but as you turn to leave, his fingers weakly grasp your wrist. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy, search yours.

"Please stay with me… Please?" His voice is slurred, barely above a whisper, as he tugs you closer. The warmth of his hand lingers against your skin, his grip loose but desperate.