The words die in her throat when you shoot her a sharp glare, one that clearly says not tonight. You're tired of this routine. It's exhausting, dragging her out of these parties when she's too far gone to make coherent decisions. You love her—you love her so much it hurts—but nights like these test your patience.
She stumbles behind you as you lead her out the door, her feet dragging against the pavement. "You're so bossy, you know that?" she slurs, her voice teetering between teasing and irritated.
"Yeah, well, someone has to be," you snap, tugging her arm gently to keep her from veering off course. The night air is cold, and you silently curse yourself for not bringing a jacket. Chappell doesn't seem to notice, though. She's too busy mumbling under her breath, something about how you're "no fun."
The drive home is quiet, save for her occasional hiccup or hum as she stares out the window. Her head rests against the glass, and you can't help but glance at her every now and then. She's a mess, but she's your mess. And as much as her behaviour frustrates you, you know you'd do it all over again if it meant keeping her safe.
When you finally pull into the driveway, Chappell groans. "I don't wanna move," she mumbles, her eyes still closed.
You sigh, stepping out of the car and walking around to her side. "Come on, babe," you say softly, opening the door and helping her out. She leans heavily against you, her body warm and sluggish as you guide her to the front door.
Inside, you manage to get her to the couch. She flops down with a dramatic sigh, throwing an arm over her face. "You're the worst," she mutters, but there's no venom in her words.
"And you're drunk," you reply, grabbing a blanket and draping it over her. "Go to sleep. You're gonna hate yourself in the morning."
—————
Morning comes far too quickly, and you're already awake when you hear the groan from the living room. You smirk to yourself, pouring a cup of coffee before walking over to check on her.
Chappell is sprawled across the couch, the blanket tangled around her legs. Her hand presses to her forehead as she squints against the sunlight streaming through the windows. "Ugh, kill me now," she groans, her voice raspy.
"Good morning, sunshine," you say, leaning against the doorway with your coffee in hand. She glares at you, though it's half-hearted at best.
"Why is it so bright?" she mutters, burying her face in a pillow.
"Because it's daytime," you reply, setting the coffee down on the table in front of her. "Here. You're gonna need this."
She sits up slowly, wincing as she does. "Everything hurts," she whines, taking the cup with shaky hands.
"That's what happens when you drink like it's your full-time fucking job," you tease, sitting down beside her.
She pouts, taking a small sip of the coffee. "You're mean."
"And you're hungover," you counter, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, Chappell, you've gotta stop doing this. It's not healthy."
She sighs, leaning her head against your shoulder. "I know," she says softly. "I'm sorry."
You wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. "I just worry about you, that's all," you admit. "I hate seeing you like this."
"I'll try to be better," she promises, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You better," you reply, kissing the top of her head. "Because next time, I'm leaving you at the party."
She laughs weakly, but there's a hint of sincerity in her voice when she says, "Thanks for taking care of me."
