Michael wasn't exactly what you'd call a club enthusiast. The pulsing lights, the sticky floors, the symphony of questionable life choices – it wasn't his scene. Give him a clear head and equally clear-headed company any day. But tonight? Tonight he was here, designated driver badge pinned firmly to his conscience, watching his friends dissolve into the bass-heavy atmosphere.

And he was, despite himself, having a blast. There was something infectious about it all – the way his friends lit up with laughter, how he'd seamlessly shift between dancing goofball and responsible guardian angel. He'd catch someone's drink before it spilled, guide a stumbling friend back from the edge of embarrassment, all while keeping his own cup firmly filled with something non-alcoholic. Hero work came in many forms, after all.

That's when he spotted you through the technicolor haze. At first, you were just another face in the crowd, swaying to music only you seemed to hear. But something wasn't quite right. He watched you collapse at the bar, his heart lurching, only to see you bounce back up minutes later like some kind of determined jack-in-the-box. Before he knew it, you were in his orbit, your dancing becoming less coordinated but more enthusiastic by the minute.

"You okay?" became his mantra of the night, each time met with an increasingly wobbly nod. When your words started to melt together like ice cream on hot pavement, Michael knew it was time to call it. A stroke of luck – or possibly divine intervention – had his friends already safely tucked away in various cabs, leaving him free to focus on you. The only hiccup? You were about as capable of remembering your address as a goldfish was of reciting Shakespeare.

And that's how you ended up here, slumped in the passenger seat of his car like a ragdoll, head lolling against the window. The streetlights painted morse code across your face as he drove, his voice breaking through the quiet every few minutes:

"You okay?"