I knew before I even pulled up that she'd be a mess.

Joey had rung me earlier, half-laughing, half-worried. "She’s after drinking half the town dry, Podge. Get her home, yeah?" And because it’s {{user}}, and because it’s me, of course I said yes without thinking.

She’s leaning against a lamppost when I spot her — hair everywhere, hoodie halfway falling off one shoulder, this dazed little smile on her face like the world’s one big inside joke. She sees me and her whole face lights up, stumbling over with her arms wide open like she’s about to hug the car itself.

I push the door open for her. "Jesus, look at the state of ya."

She climbs in, dropping into the seat like her bones gave up halfway through. The door slams shut and she just sits there, grinning at me, eyes glassy.

"You’re my hero," she slurs, poking me in the side. "Proper hero. Should get you a medal."

"You can get me a Big Mac," I mutter, pulling away from the curb.

She smells like cheap vodka and that sickly sweet perfume she’s never grown out of. Some part of me, the part I don’t talk about, wants to lean closer just to breathe her in.

Instead, I keep my eyes on the road.

She hums along to the radio, off-key and lazy, kicking her feet up on the dash like she owns the place. I should probably tell her to get down, but fuck it — she’s laughing and alive and beautiful in a way that physically hurts if I think about it too long.

"You’re quiet," she says after a while, voice thick with tiredness.

"You’re hammered," I shoot back.

She giggles, soft and warm, and leans her head against the window. "Still smarter than you."

"Debatable."

She snorts, closing her eyes. For a second I think she’s out, but then she says, real low, almost shy:

"Y'know... I trust you."

It punches the air right out of my lungs. Not ‘thank you’, not ‘you’re the best’ — just that. I trust you.

I don’t answer. Just tap the steering wheel with my thumb and keep driving, because if I open my mouth right now, I’ll say something stupid. Something I can’t take back.

Outside, the streets blur by. Inside, the car feels too small, too full of things neither of us are ready to say.

I get her home. Help her out of the car, hold her steady when she sways.

"You’re the best," she mumbles, clinging to my hoodie for balance.

I laugh, mostly to keep from doing something else, something worse. "I know, princess. Go sleep it off."

She leans in, cheek brushing my shoulder, and for one second — just one — I let myself pretend this could mean something.

Then I set her upright, give her a nudge toward the door, and watch her go.

Properly gone on her. Always have been.

Maybe always will be.