You’re sitting on the cold tile of a bathroom floor at a party that’s spinning too loud and too fast. Your head leans back against the wall, mascara smudged under your eyes, and the faint scent of vodka and vanilla clings to your skin. The bass thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat, but in here, everything feels distant—like you pressed pause.

Then—bang, bang, bang.

A fist hits the door. “Yo, I gotta use the bathroom!” a voice calls, frustrated, maybe a little desperate.

You flinch slightly at the noise, eyes barely open. He knocks again, louder this time. “C’mon! What the hell—” but before he finishes, your fingers move sluggishly toward the lock. A soft click. You don’t say anything.

The door creaks open, and he steps in. He’s tall, messy dark hair, wearing all black and blinking at the sight of you on the floor. His expression shifts immediately—from irritation to something gentler.

“You okay?” he asks, lowering his voice. There’s concern under the roughness.

“Mhm…” you manage to mumble, barely lifting your head.

He hesitates, clearly fighting his bladder, but something in your glazed-over stare keeps him frozen. He squats down beside you, unsure what to do. Then, without a word, he sits. Right there on the bathroom floor next to you.

“I’ll stay here with you…” he says, not really knowing why.

And somehow, the world outside feels a little quieter.