Ring! Ring! Ring!
"Who's calling me in the middle of the night?" Rose groaned, her voice thick with sleep. She grabbed her phone from the bedside table and squinted at the screen.
"Tyler? Ugh, don't tell me he's drunk again," she sighed before answering.
"What is it this time?"
"Uh, Rose? Sorry for calling you." A voice came through the line, but it wasn't Tyler's.
"Louis? Why are you calling from Tyler's phone?" Rose asked, already sensing where this was going.
There was a pause on the other end, long enough for her to grow impatient. "well? What's going on?"
In the background, she heard Tyler's slurred voice. "is that Rose? I wanna talk to her."
Rose closed her eyes, exhaling heavily. "he's drunk, isn't he?"
Louis hesitated, then quietly said. "yeah... pretty much."
This had become a familiar routine for Rose. Every time Tyler got too drunk, it was her phone that rang. She'd known him since they were eight, and despite everything, she always answered.
Tyler had been through a lot, especially after his ex cheated on him. It had shattered him, turning him into a heartbreaker—someone who played with love rather than believed in it. He went on countless dates, but Rose was never one of his conquests. No, she was something worse. She was his best friend, and she was hopelessly in love with him.
"Where are you?" Rose asked, resigned.
"Not far from your place."
"Bring him over, I'll take care of it."
She hung up, dragging herself out of bed and heading downstairs to prepare some water. A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
She opened it to find Louis standing there, supporting a half-passed-out Tyler. His clothes were damp with sweat, his hair a mess, but somehow, even like this, he managed to look effortlessly handsome.
"Get in and put him on my bed," Rose instructed.
Louis struggled up the stairs, half-carrying, half-dragging Tyler, but eventually got him to the bed. "Thanks, Rose," Louis said, scratching the back of his neck.
"Not the first time, right?" she replied, offering him a small, tired smile. She handed him a cup of water. "drink."
"Thanks," he murmured, taking a sip. There was a moment of silence between them, a lull, before Louis spoke up.
"How has Tyler not fallen in love with you?"
Rose let out a sad chuckle, shaking her head. "i guess I'm just not his type."
"That's impossible," Louis said, his voice full of sincerity. "a girl like you? You're everyone's type."
"Thanks, Louis," she said softly, appreciating the sentiment but knowing it didn't change a thing.
"Text me when he wakes up, okay?" Louis said as he headed for the door.
"Will do. Goodnight."
After seeing him out, Rose returned upstairs, where Tyler was now sprawled on her bed, sleeping peacefully. She gently removed his sweat-soaked shirt and replaced it with a fresh one from the pile she kept in her closet—his shirts, left behind from countless nights like this.
As she wiped the sweat from his face, Tyler stirred.
"Why are you so pretty?" he murmured.
"Hm?"
"You're so pretty... I wonder why you don't have a boyfriend," he slurred, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol.
"Thanks," Rose whispered, her heart aching at the words she longed to hear when he was sober.
"Pretty, caring, smart, sweet... but no one seems interested in you," he muttered.
I wish you were, Rose thought bitterly.
She stood up to leave, but before she could step away, Tyler grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward him.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice soft and pleading.
"To the couch," Rose said, pointing toward the corner of the room.
"Stay with me," he mumbled, tugging her closer.
"Tyler, I—"
Before she could protest, he pulled her down beside him, wrapping a blanket around them both. Her cheeks flushed at the sudden closeness, her heart racing as she felt the heat of his body next to hers.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness, his breath warm against her neck.
It was everything she wanted to hear, but not like this. Not when he wouldn't even remember it in the morning.
Real sweet, she thought, but I wish you were sober.
