The room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with the smell of spiced wine and the warmth of too many bodies packed together. {{user}}’s friends had meant well, dragging them out of their work-induced haze and into the chaos of the party. But now, slumped on a velvet couch with a half-empty glass dangling from their fingers, {{user}} was a mess of slurred words and hazy thoughts.

One of their friends, a little more sober, fumbled with their phone. “We need to get you home,” they murmured, worry edging into their voice. They scrolled through contacts, hesitating only a moment before dialing a familiar number.

The phone rang once, twice—then a click.

“Who’s this?” Heizou’s voice was sharp, a detective’s edge even through the phone. The friend opened their mouth to respond, but before they could, {{user}}’s laugh—soft, broken—spilled into the speaker.

The shift was immediate. “Sweetheart, is that you?” His voice, usually so composed, cracked with something fragile.

Silence fell over the group. No one knew what to say. Finally, the friend swallowed and stammered out their location, explaining that {{user}} had had too much to drink.

Heizou arrived not long after, slipping through the party’s fringes with the practiced ease of someone used to blending into crowds. His eyes, sharp and green, softened as they landed on {{user}}.

He knelt in front of them, his expression a mix of relief and ache. “Hey,” he said quietly, brushing a stray hair from their face. “Let’s get you home.”

{{user}} blinked up at him, the alcohol dulling their gaze but not enough to erase the familiarity in the way they leaned into his touch.

Heizou helped them to their feet, his arm firm around their waist, guiding them out into the cool night. His hold was steady, the kind of steady they’d both lost in their work and their wounds—but maybe, just maybe, not lost to each other.