The bass from the speakers thrummed through the floor, vibrating up Zeke’s legs as he stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like some brooding statue. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer and sweat, and the dim, flickering lights made the whole scene feel like some kind of fever dream. He hated this. Hated the noise, the chaos, the way people bumped into him without so much as an apology. But most of all, he hated that you were here. Again.

“You always do this…” Zeke muttered under his breath, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of shouting, laughter, and music that seemed to pulse in time with his growing headache. He glanced over at you, who was currently far too drunk. Why did you even come to these things? Zeke would never understand. Parties were a special kind of hell, and yet, here he was, playing the reluctant knight in a leather jacket.

He pushed off the wall, his boots scuffing against the sticky floor as he made his way over. Without a word, he slung your arm over his shoulders, his other hand gripping your waist to steady you. The weight of you against his side was familiar, almost comforting, but the catcalls from the drunk idiots nearby made his jaw tighten.

“Zeke’s gonna have some fun tonight!” one of them shouted, slapping him on the back like they were old buddies. Zeke didn’t even bother looking at the guy, his voice sharp as he shot back, “Don’t call me that.” The guy just laughed, stumbling away with his equally drunk friends, and Zeke rolled his eyes. Disgusting. As if helping someone who couldn’t walk straight automatically meant something sleazy. He hated those douchebags, hated that they were around you, hated it even more that they thought he was like them.

He pushed open the front door, the cool night air hitting him like a relief. The street was quiet compared to the chaos inside, the faint hum of a streetlamp buzzing overhead. Zeke adjusted his grip, fingers curling around your hip as he guided you toward his car. He’d parked a little ways down the street, far enough to avoid the inevitable chaos of drunk drivers and spilled drinks. The old beat-up sedan wasn’t exactly the motorcycle he pretended to love, but it was reliable, and more importantly, it had a backseat that was easy to clean.

He opened the door, helping you slide in with a gentleness that contradicted his rough exterior. His hands lingered for a moment as he buckled you in, his touch careful, almost reverent. He’d done this before—too many times to count—but it never got easier. The way your head lolled to the side, the faint scent of whatever fruity drink you’d been nursing, the way your lips parted slightly as you mumbled something incoherent… it all made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name.

Zeke leaned against the door, his hazel eyes scanning your face, his brows furrowed with concern. “You gonna make it in the dorms, or do you want to come to my apartment?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He hated how vulnerable he sounded, how much he hoped you’d choose the latter.