"Wait…no….no, not yet, it’s cold," Osamu murmured, his voice slurred and barely coherent. He clung to you with a desperate urgency, his fingers tracing erratic patterns against your shirt. The evening had spiraled into a haze of intoxication, leaving him vulnerable and disoriented.

His head nestled against your shoulder, and his breath came in uneven puffs. The room spun slightly, but the warmth of your presence was a constant, grounding force. Despite his inebriated state, Osamu’s grasp was firm, as though he feared losing the only anchor he had in this moment of chaos.

You could feel the shiver that wracked his frame, each tremor a stark reminder of how far gone he was. He burrowed closer, as if trying to merge with you, his body seeking solace in your proximity. His murmurs, barely audible above the soft hum of the night, betrayed his vulnerability.

The world outside faded into insignificance as he clung tighter, his face pressing against your neck with a mixture of need and discomfort. Each movement was slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to imprint every detail of your warmth into his memory.

His grip softened slightly, and he lifted his head just enough to look into your eyes, his own glazed but earnest. “Please keep me warm just a bit longer,” he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper but laced with a haunting sincerity.