Arianna Stone had never taken care of a drunk person before.

She stood frozen in place, watching Maxwell King on the sofa, feeling completely out of her element. Yet, Maxwell was being remarkably… well-behaved.

Yes, that was the only word that came to Arianna’s mind: *well-behaved*.

He sat there perfectly still, his fair, slender fingers dangling off the side of the cushion as he looked up at her. His eyes were glossed over, his long lashes damp with a touch of intoxication. Arianna had no idea where to start.

After a long, silent stalemate of staring, she heard him speak, his voice raspy and low. "Did you only pour one glass of water?"

Arianna snapped out of her daze and held out the cup. "Drink this one first. I'll go get you another."

"No," Maxwell muttered, frowning with a hint of disdain. "Spencer Miller already drank from that one. I don't want it. Throw it away."

Arianna: "???"

Arianna: "..."

At that moment, Arianna was absolutely certain: Maxwell was well and truly smashed. Under normal, sober circumstances, Maxwell would never utter a sentence like that—let alone with such a petulant, spoiled tone that leaned dangerously close to flirting.

Her brain felt like it was about to explode. If he was this drunk, did he need a shower? And if he needed a shower… what the hell was she supposed to do then?!

While she was spiraling, Maxwell stood up, snatched the glass from her hand, and grabbed a different one—a crystal-cut glass from the table—before handing it to her. "Could you do me a favor and pour me some water in this one? Thanks."

Arianna gripped the glass, barely holding it together. "You want to drink from this one?"

"Is there a problem?"

Arianna: "This is the cup I use every day."

Maxwell blinked sluggishly, as if it took a moment to process her words. "Are you trying to get rid of me? Oh, I see. Forget it, then. I'll take another."

"..."

Arianna was on the verge of a breakdown. It wasn't about being annoyed or "getting rid" of him. It was just… she didn't even know what the problem was anymore.

She double-checked, "I'm not trying to get rid of you. Are you sure you want to use this cup?"

Maxwell looked at her and nodded. A soft, crooked smile played on his lips, his eyes shimmering with a bright, intense anticipation. Arianna could barely fathom that the dignified Maxwell King would ever look at her with such… near-obsessive adoration. It was as if he were gazing up at the stars, waiting for them to shine just for him.

She hesitated, then finally blurted out the question, "Do you even know who I am?"

"Arianna," Maxwell said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn't blink, his gaze locked onto her as he slowly added, "My Mrs. King."

Arianna stared at him for a heartbeat, but she couldn't handle the searing, fire-like intensity in his eyes. She turned and fled to the kitchen. Why was he like this when he was drunk? Not loud, not aggressive—just dangerously charming.

---

Hiding in the kitchen, Arianna dawdled, terrified to go back out. Maxwell’s state was just too unfair. He usually carried himself with such cold, restrained discipline, wrapped in perfectly tailored shirts and dress pants like a high-altitude flower, untouchable and aloof.

But drunk Maxwell had shed that skin. He was vulnerable, childish, and raw. He was like that campus tomcat that usually strutted around with its chest puffed out, untouchable—until it saw Arianna, rolled onto its back, and showed her its soft belly, rubbing against her.

It made her heart ache with a strange, itchy sweetness.

She found a jar of honey in the fridge, scooped a spoonful into a mug, and filled it with warm water, stirring it slowly until it dissolved. She took several deep breaths, steadying her nerves before walking back into the living room.

Maxwell was still in the same spot, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, lounging with effortless grace. He looked up at her, his eyes like a lake without a ripple—calm, yet inexplicably capable of making her heart race.

Arianna walked over and handed him the honey water.

Maxwell took it obediently. "Is this honey water?"

"Yeah."

Arianna watched, frozen, as his lips touched the rim of her cup. She blinked, feeling awkward. "Does it taste good?"

"Good," Maxwell said, looking up at her with a gentle gaze, not sparing his praise. "It's very sweet."

"I'm glad."

Maxwell looked at her with wide, pleading eyes. "Can I have another cup?"

Arianna: "..."

After two cups of honey water, Maxwell finally seemed to settle down. He sat on the sofa, staring into space for a while before grabbing the armrest to hoist himself up, swaying slightly.

Arianna looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

"Shower."

Arianna paused for two seconds. "Do you feel any better?"

"Better," Maxwell said. "I didn't drink that much, to begin with. Not enough to get drunk."

Drunk people never admit they're drunk. Arianna watched him struggle to walk in a straight line and sighed. "Are you serious?"

Maxwell nodded with absolute gravity. "Serious."

"..."

Unable to watch him stumble anymore, Arianna stood up to support him, guiding him slowly toward the stairs. Only now, being this close, did she catch the heavy scent of alcohol clinging to him—a scent she found she didn't hate at all.

"Why did you drink so much tonight?"

Maxwell leaned his entire weight against the banister, terrified of accidentally crushing her. He murmured, "I was in a bad mood."

Arianna was about to ask why when they reached the bedroom. Maxwell tugged at her fingertips, his voice soft. "Wait for me. I need to get my clothes."

*Wait?* Wait for what? It wasn't as if they were going to shower together…

Arianna’s mind started racing, spiraling into a chaotic mess. It wasn't until Maxwell opened his closet and bypassed all his T-shirts, shorts, and pajamas that she suddenly realized exactly what kind of "clothes" he was looking for.