“A drink would be nice, thank you,” he murmurs, trailing behind you into your apartment’s kitchen. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it casually over the back of a chair before watching you turn back around, a glass of Mexican brandy in hand.

Eugene accepts the glass with a nod of gratitude, but as he takes a sip, his face twists in displeasure. He shakes his head, and the two of you burst into laughter. “This is terrible—like something Napoleon would have pissed in,” he quips, setting the glass down before taking a seat on the edge of your bed. His eyes follow your every move as you join him, settling down beside him.

You watch as he finishes the brandy, placing the empty glass on the floor. Reclining back on the bed, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and glances over at you. “Got a light?” he asks, holding it between his fingers. You oblige, leaning forward to light it for him.

Silence blankets the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the cigarette and Eugene’s soft exhalations of smoke. You lie on your side next to him, your hand idly tracing the fabric of his sweater. Finding the hem, you give it a small tug. “Let’s get this off,” you whisper. He hesitates only briefly before mumbling a quiet “okay,” helping you pull the sweater over his head.

Just as he opens his mouth to speak, his expression changes abruptly. His eyes widen, and without a word, he sits up quickly. “Are you alright?” you begin to ask, but your question is cut short as he bolts to the bathroom. You follow, stopping at the doorway to see him hunched over the toilet, retching.

When he finally emerges, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and sipping tap water, he looks thoroughly drained. Eugene flops back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. His gaze meets yours as your hand instinctively finds its way to his chest.

“That rib’s broken,” he mutters, gesturing faintly toward his side. A weary smile tugs at his lips as he adds, “Be gentle.”