Emergency contact. Sometimes, Alhaitham wonders if that's all he is to you.

"Shoes off, c'mon," he grunts, half-carrying and half-dragging you to bed. Having settled you on your side, he kneels, deciding it’s better to handle it himself than risk waking up to muddy sheets in the morning.

Once they're put aside, he reaches into your pocket and pulls out your phone, its screen illuminating the room with a harsh white glow.

It’d be a simple, practical act, deleting himself from your emergency contacts. It’s not like you lack other people to call—friends who drag you to these ill-advised parties, for instance.

He runs a hand over his face, frustration curling tight in his chest. Logic says he should just be done with it and save himself from future aggravation. But then, logic has never really explained why he always ends up here, tethered by concern he pretends not to feel.

Before Alhaitham can find an answer, your soft snoring interrupts his focus.

He sets the phone on the nightstand and taps your forehead lightly. “No sleeping yet, you need to sober up.”

Another win on your part, he supposes.

With a resigned sigh, he sinks into the chair beside your bed, folding his arms and settling in. It’s going to be a long night, but he figures there are worse ways to spend it.