He says your name like he’s always known it.

Like it belongs to him.

Like maybe, if he says it enough, he will.

He is all warmth and confidence, easy laughter and hands that move without hesitation. When he looks at you, it is full, direct, whole. No one has ever looked at you like that before.

And so, you let him.

The first time he kisses you, it is outside someone’s house, a party humming behind you, the porch light buzzing overhead. He is close, and then closer, and then there is no space at all.

It is soft, then firmer. Familiar, like he’s done this before. Because he has. And he will again.

But you have not.

Your lips hesitate, but he doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t stop.

When it ends, he smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He does not ask if you wanted it. He just assumes. And maybe that is easier.

“I’ve been waiting for you to finally let me do that,” he says.

And you should say something back, should make a joke, should tease him for his confidence.

But you just nod, and smile, and let him hold your hand as you walk back inside.

I’ve been gone too long now, I have to go.

⥈

The first time you realize something is wrong, wrong is not the word you use.

It is just a party, just another drink, just another moment where he is too much and you are too little.

He is laughing too loudly, leaning too heavily, spilling beer down the front of his shirt and swaying when he tries to stand. You are the one who steadies him.

You lead him to a couch, but he wants to dance. He grabs your wrist, but it is not gentle. He forgets how strong he is.

“You’re drunk,” you say, softer than you should.

“I’m fine,” he slurs.

Someone shouts from across the room, a joke at his expense, and his face twists. A split second of something you do not like. But then he grins, throws an arm over your shoulder, and pulls you down beside him.

You do not pull away from him.

You don’t know why.

⥈

I watch.

As he wretches into the toilet.

As you rub his back – stroke his hair.

I watch as you sit on the floor beside him, as he leans against you, as you shift under his weight but learn to bear it.

But you do not leave.

So I do the only thing I can.

I try to help.

A chill rolls over him, just barely there, a whisper of cool air against his face.

He exhales, shifting, rubbing his arms.

And you look up at me.

For a second, I think—maybe.

Maybe you feel me.

Maybe you know I am here.

That I’m trying to help.

But instead you pull a towel from a shelf, and drape it over his shivering body, and curl up next to him, and wait for sober to come.