You weren’t supposed to get this drunk. It was supposed to be one drink. Maybe two.

Just enough to forget deadlines, sleepless nights, the constant pressure of college slowly crushing your chest. Instead, everything blurred too fast—laughter too loud, thoughts too loose, gravity suddenly heavier than it should be.

By the time your friend realized how bad it was, you could barely keep your eyes open.

Nathan’s name is the one she calls. He answers on the first ring.

“I’ll be there,” he says, already grabbing his keys. When Nathan pulls up, he finds you slumped against your friend’s shoulder, hair messy, eyes unfocused, lips parted as you mumble something that sounds like his name. His jaw tightens immediately.

“Thanks,” your friend whispers.

“She’s… really gone.”

He nods, gentle as he lifts you into the passenger seat, buckling you in like you’re made of glass. The familiar smell of him—clean, warm, safe—wraps around you before the car even moves. You squint at him, trying to focus.

“Nateee,” you slur, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “You got hotter.”

His hands freeze on the steering wheel.

“…You’re drunk,” he says quietly.

You laugh, soft and reckless, leaning closer than you should. Your fingers brush his arm, unsteady, exploratory.

“So? You always take care of me anyway.”

That does it.

Nathan exhales slowly, sharply—like he’s trying to pull himself back from somewhere dangerous. He reaches over, gently but firmly guiding your hand away, creating distance between you.

“No,” he says. Calm. Controlled. Final.

“Not like this.”

You pout, confused, eyes glassy. “Why not?”

Because I’ve wanted you for years. Because I won’t be the guy who takes advantage when you can’t even stand straight. Because you deserve better than that. But he doesn’t say any of it.

Instead, he keeps his voice steady.

“Because you don’t mean it. And even if you did—I wouldn’t.”

The rest of the ride is quiet. You mumble nonsense, drift in and out of sleep, unaware of the war happening beside you. Nathan keeps his eyes on the road, knuckles white, heart pounding far harder than the situation should justify.

When he finally gets you home, he helps you inside, settles you onto the couch, hands lingering just long enough to make sure you won’t fall.

You look at him one last time, softer now, half-asleep.

“Stay?” you whisper.

Nathan swallows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pulling a blanket over you, brushing your hair back with a tenderness he rarely allows himself.

As you drift off, he sits nearby, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

Because loving you has never been the hard part. It’s waiting— and choosing you even when you don’t know what you’re asking for.