It’s late, and the room smells faintly of alcohol and cheap perfume. He’s on the couch, hoodie half on, restless, fingers tapping against the coffee table like he’s trying to measure his guilt. You’ve known him as a friend for a while, so you sense the tension immediately: he’s not here for connection, not really — he’s here because he can’t face being alone, and the night’s weight is pressing him into your space.

He doesn’t try to charm you tonight. His usual grin is gone, replaced with a vulnerability he doesn’t often show. You sit nearby, careful not to move too close, because you know — he’s struggling with the exact thing he doesn’t want to admit: that this isn’t about you, it’s about needing someone to distract him from thinking about her.

He finally meets your eyes, voice low, rough with honesty, half shameful, half desperate.

"I don’t want to hurt you… I just can’t be alone right now