🍾One Drunken Night Chris🍾

I wrote this with a very messy, hurt MC in mind—someone who sees Chris as a rebound. They're not ready to face their pain, so they try to numb it instead. The people they’d usually lean on aren’t there… so they end up turning to the one person who is. (Still shocked Chris won.)

Word Count: 2540

Why did I come here?

The answer is right in front of you—Cam’s neck wrapped in arms that aren’t yours.

A week ago, Cam practically got down on one knee begging, “Come on, Red, we haven’t hung out in like a week. Besides, this will be our first toga party.”

You’d pictured it before — just under different circumstances. How could you say no to that hopeful grin, yours a week too late?

You couldn’t.

Now, here you are, surrounded by a sea of peers. Some were draped in white sheets, others in blue – the university’s colors.

Cam, of course, stands out—red hair blazing like a beacon. His toga clings just right when he turns. That’s when you reached for your first drink.

Your second drink comes as Peri – grinning, and loud – tugs Cam’s toga loose with a laugh, the fabric slipping just enough to make your stomach twist.

I’m not jealous. I just miss him.
You almost believe it — until the ache in your chest says otherwise.

Then someone bumps your elbow, and the illusion shatters. The frat house is thick with bodies pressed close. Sweat mingles with the scent of alcohol and cheap pizza. It’s warm — far too warm to be comfortable.

You down another drink and try not to look in Cam’s direction again.

The party grows louder, hotter — the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes you feel like you're drowning in someone else’s breath. Sweat beads at your temple. You tug at your collar.

Peri’s laugh slices through the music, sharp and bright as broken glass. They’re still at Cam’s side, tugging him toward the dance floor with easy confidence. Their hands linger — casual, like they belong there. Like you never did.

It’s not  jealousy. You swear it isn’t. But something about the way Cam doesn’t push them away, the way his eyes flick toward you and then away again — that stings.

You thought maybe tonight would be fun. Light. Like it used to be.

Now it feels like you're watching your life from the other side of a glass — not quite invited, not quite gone.

Someone brushes past your back, and you realize your shoulder’s tensed so tight it aches. Your heart kicks up. The music’s too loud. The bass is a throb behind your eyes. The floor feels sticky and unsteady under your shoes.

The pressure in your chest climbs—a tight, hot ache that doesn’t let go. You need air. Space. Anything but this.

Your hand tightens around the cup. You down the drink in one bitter swallow, barely tasting it.

Then a hand presses on your shoulder, pulling you back. Your body freezes — then eases at the sound of his voice.

“Sorry about…” Cam starts, but his words are lost in the thrum of the music.

Sorry about what? Peri? The party? The fact that you feel like a ghost?  

“I’ll make it up to you, okay? You and me. Super greasy take-out. A crappy movie.”

Like old times — just the two of us.

The idea brings a smile to your face, one that is quickly washed away with the sound of a voice. “Mind if I steal him for a bit?” Peri’s grin doesn’t quite reach their eyes — too practiced, too pleased.

To everyone else, it’s harmless. But you feel it: the shift. The shove. The quiet erasure of your space.

Cam opens his mouth, but Peri’s already sliding an arm around his waist, leaning in, voice honey-sweet and low. “Chris was here earlier. I’m sure they’d be happy to keep you company.”

Those words settled in your chest like a stone you didn’t expect. It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

You can’t face the ghosts tonight. Not Cam. Not G. Not the ache they leave behind.

Instead, another drink slides down your throat, and you slip away.

You don’t remember deciding to walk—just that you needed out.  Out of the party, out of your own skin. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that still wants you.

Your feet carry you away from the heat and noise, into the cool night. Music and laughter dissolve behind you as you approach the law firm where Chris works.

Your hand hesitates on the door. This is a line. For you. For everything you’re still trying—desperately—to hold onto. But the alcohol hums low in your blood, whispering lies you almost believe – that maybe here, now, you’ll find a moment’s relief.

Maybe a numbness to forget heartache. Maybe something to dull the sharp edge of longing.

The door creaks open before you can knock. There’s no surprise on Chris’s face. Just a smile, and the offer of a drink.

A throw blanket rests on the arm of the chair. Yours. One you left behind months ago. Folded neatly, like someone had been waiting.

Your fingers brush over the soft fabric before you slide into a worn leather chair. Then, your fingers trail along the smooth mahogany desk. The overhead light washes out the bright colors of the throw — as if to say it doesn’t belong. Like you.

For a moment, the room spins: dark wood, soft green wallpaper, framed photos you barely recognize.

Then comes the soft pop of a cork. The quiet glug of wine poured into glass.

Chris crosses the room, balancing two drinks — one for you, one for them — a deep red.

How many drinks have you had tonight? Could you count them on one hand? You hope so. Otherwise, your head will pound in the morning, and your mom will be the first to notice when you pick her up at the airport.

Chris sets your glass down and slides back into their seat.

“You never told me why you stopped by,” Chris says softly, “Not that I’m complaining. But it's not every night, someone like you shows up after hours.”

Were you looking for a shoulder to lean on? Or something more?

You shake your head, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the surface of the desk. Chris’s eyes catch the movement, a knowing smile tugging at their lips.

“I just needed to—”

Chris nudges your glass closer with two fingers before saying, “Clear your head.”

That’s part of it… but why? Why now?

Maybe you’re sabotaging yourself. Maybe some part of you knew that if Cam found out you visited Chris, he’d be angry—and ask questions. Cam’s with Peri now. There's no room left for you there, not even an inch.

Maybe G would care enough to ask why. Or at least yell. But you two broke up - there's still that raw edge, that distance you can't quite cross.

You needed someone. Anyone. But not Cam — not while he’s with someone else. Not G — not when what you had is still tangled in pain and silence.

So, there’s Chris. Present, watching, waiting.

Is Chris a smart choice? A safe choice? Probably not. But they’re here.

They swirl the drink again.

“You know you do that a lot,” Chris says, voice low, tapping a finger lightly against their temple. “Get lost in your head. It always looks like you’re waiting for someone to drag you back out.”

They tip the glass to their lips, eyes locking onto you over the rim. “Probably Cam, right?”

You don’t answer — but in your head, you think: …probably.

Chris slowly wipes a stray drop of wine trailing from their lip before adding, “Funny how... you ended up here. With me.”

Your throat tightens. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the weight behind the words.

Chris tilts their head, voice softening. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. But I know you. You’re not okay. And no one’s asking if you are… are they?”

You don’t answer.

“I saw G the other day,” Chris continues quietly, “when I went to clear out my side of the dorm. Didn’t say much—barely looked at me. Too busy buried in their books.”

Chris glances at you, then down at the untouched glass.
“Funny how the ones who say they love you never notice when you’re falling apart.”

That hits. You reach for the glass.

Chris smiles—not smug, not oblivious. Just… satisfied.

“I always notice,” they say softly. “Even when you pretend everything’s fine. Even when you try to disappear. I always notice you.”

They lean back, stretching like it’s just another night—not something orchestrated.

“But I get it. You’ve always had to keep it together. Your parents. G. Cam. Everyone expects the strong version of you—the one who never breaks.”

If you were sober, you’d tell them they’re wrong. Not about your parents, but the rest.

But you're not. And somehow, the words still cut deeper—like the alcohol’s sharpened them instead of dulling the edge.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You sip the drink—warm, sharp—and swallow it down.

Chris twists a strand of blonde hair between their fingertips, eyes fixed on you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” they murmur gently. “Just breathe for once. You’re safe here. With me.”

Are you?

You don’t know. But it’s quiet and warm, and for the first time, no one is asking you to be anything other than tired and hurting.

You lean your head back, eyes drifting to the paneled ceiling—warm brown wood arranged in quiet patterns.

Somewhere in the haze, Chris moves closer. Not touching, but near enough that the space between you all but disappears. A faint brush of their arm against yours jolts you—a shock that maybe feels nice, or maybe it’s just the alcohol.

“You don’t have to go back tonight,” they murmur.

The words stick in your throat.

Do you admit why you came? Not for comfort. Not for anything real. But for something to drown the thoughts that swirl in your head.

You shift in your seat, the room tilting just so. Your stomach twists—not unpleasant, but enough to make your eyes water.

“I think I need coffee,” you mutter, half to yourself, pushing to your feet. “Or—or something.”

Your phone buzzes sharply on the desk.

You glance down. A name flashes across the screen—familiar, important. The ringtone reminds you of black hair and dark eyes - but before you can grab it, Chris snatches up the phone.

“I got it,” they say smoothly. “Coffee’s down the hall. The second door on the left. If the assistants haven’t thrown it out.”

You frown, wondering how they move so fast. But your head’s heavy and your thoughts sluggish. Chris has always been... helpful. Right?

You nod and shuffle out.

As your footsteps fade down the corridor, Chris turns the phone over in their hand. Still ringing. Their thumb hovers over the screen—then presses.

They answer, voice low, calm but with an unmistakable edge: “G.”

There’s a beat. Then—

“I… I need to talk to them.”

G’s voice isn’t sharp. It’s frayed, breathless. Like it took effort just to say that much. “It’s important.”

Chris’s tone tightens, clipped and dismissive. “They’re busy right now. And by busy, I mean they’ll be occupied for the rest of the night.”

A pause.

“You can see them in the morning if I’m feeling generous enough to bring them back—assuming they’re up for it after tonight.”

A slow, almost amused smirk crosses Chris’s face as the line goes dead.

With practiced fingers, they delete the call log.

But not before catching the reminder on your lock screen:

5:00 A.M. – pick up mom at the airport.

You return with a trembling mug—chilled or shaken by the alcohol, you can’t tell. The fog hasn’t lifted. It’s only thickened.

Chris sits where you left them—glass in hand, legs crossed—like nothing happened.

You gesture toward your phone. “Who was that?”

Chris doesn’t miss a beat. “Viv—ah, your mother,” he lies smoothly. “Just making sure you remembered to pick her up.”

You blink. A dull ache blooms behind your eyes. You lift your hand to your temple.

Chris stands beside you, close—too close. A hand rests on your shoulder. Then a kiss to your temple. Your heart stammers; your breath catches.

Soft. Practiced. Too practiced.

Familiar motions, but not the comfort you crave.

If it were Cam… or G…

Is that why you drank so much? To make this easier?

“You just relax. I’ll pick her up,” Chris says softly, guiding you toward a quiet room down the hall. “You can stay here tonight. No one will bother you. Besides…”

A smile lingers in their voice.

“Your mom likes it when I help you out. Like that summer BBQ at the lakehouse — she said it made her feel better, seeing how close we’d gotten.”

You pause. That sounds like her—always eager to impress, always wanting to brag.

But if you remember right, she barely said two words to Chris that day. Too busy fawning over their father.

Maybe she did say that. Or maybe you forgot.

Your thoughts feel dry and jagged, slipping away. Your limbs are heavy like you carry the night’s weight in your bones.

Warm alcohol swirls with the bitter edge of untouched coffee.

You nod, half-listening as Chris presses a steady hand to your shoulder and leads you into the quiet room.

“Don’t worry,” they murmur. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

The buzz of alcohol clouds your head. You linger at the door, voice uncertain. “I’m not sure I’ll remember any of this by morning.”

A quiet laugh escapes Chris, barely more than a breath. “Well… whatever you want to know, just ask.”

If you were sober, you’d know that sounds too good to be true. You glance back, searching their face. “You’d tell me?”

Chris’s eyes narrow. A slow, predatory smile curls.

“Of course. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Their fingers brush the back of your neck—light, possessive. They're neither forceful, nor rushed. But full of intent. As if this moment already belongs to them.

A gentle warmth lingers, silently staking its claim against your skin. One fingertip slides upward, deliberate and slow, until it rests in the hollow beneath your jaw—right over your pulse.

They don’t press. Just hold there, still, as if feeling the exact beat where your heart stutters.

It’s comforting. And something else too—something you can’t name, causing your breath to hitch.

For a fleeting second, your mind drifts to Cam—at that crowded party, laughing with Peri, their hand resting lightly on his arm, their easy closeness stirring a bitter ache deep inside.

Then to G, hunched over their desk, nose buried in a book. You lying back on their bed, quietly talking, catching the rare warmth of G’s smile—a fragile, honest moment that made the chaos seem to fade.

But neither Cam nor G is here.

Chris is.

Their voice drops low, like silk wrapped in steel.

“I’ll never hurt you.”

The words send a chill down your spine, a shiver beneath your skin—faint but unmistakable.

You step back—not from fear, but instinct—hoping the extra space will bring clarity.

Chris follows, closing the gap without touching. Measured and waiting. Their voice drops lower, breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. The scent of expensive wine drifts, mixing with the bitter tang of your own.

“I promise."