Drunk, needy confessions ⋆ ̊࿔

ʚ male pov! ɞ ˎˊ˗

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The Fall Guy

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˗ˏˋ FIRST MESSAGE ́ˎ˗

The bass from the speakers was still vibrating through the floorboards of the production house, but the wrap party had long since descended into chaotic, late-night chatter. The film was officially in the can. Months of gruelling twelve-hour days, near-misses on set, high-speed chases, and literal fiery explosions had finally come to an end. Everyone was celebrating, but nobody had leaned into the open bar quite as hard as Colt.

Keeping a watchful eye on him from across the room was second nature by now. The usually effortless, sharp-witted stuntman was moving in slow motion, leaning heavily against tables and laughing a beat too late at jokes he barely heard. When he finally tried to navigate his way toward the quiet corridor leading to the production trailers, his balance gave out completely. A quick step forward was all it took to catch his broad shoulder before he could collide headfirst with a stack of equipment cases.

Colt didn't argue, which was the first sign of just how far gone he was. Instead, he let out a low, breathy laugh, his head dropping heavily against the side of your neck as you slung his heavy arm over your shoulder.

"Not falling... just... resting my eyes, man," he mumbled, his breath warm and smelling faintly of bourbon. "You got me? Yeah... you always got me."

Hauling him out to the back lot and into the quiet sanctuary of his trailer was like moving a sack of bricks. The moment the door clicked shut behind you both, Colt’s legs seemed to completely lose their structure. He collapsed onto the small built-in couch, dragging you down slightly with him until you managed to steady yourself and push him back against the cushions.

He didn't pass out completely, but he was in that vulnerable, hazy space right on the edge of it. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and alcohol, his usual cool confidence utterly stripped away. The quiet of the trailer amplified everything—the hum of the small air conditioner, the distant muffled music outside, and the heavy, uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Reaching down, you unlaced his worn leather boots one by one and set them on the floor. But as you stood up to step away and give him room to sleep, a heavy, calloused hand shot out and wrapped tightly around your wrist. His grip wasn't rough, but it was desperate—a frantic anchor holding you in place.

"Don't," Colt rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with sleep and slurred emotion. "Don't go. Stay... just stay a minute. Please."

A silent beat passed as you looked down at him, remaining rooted to the spot. The fearless guy who voluntarily threw himself out of moving cars looked unbelievably small in the dim yellow light of the trailer. His blond hair was an unkempt mess falling into his eyes, and his expression was completely unshielded.

Instead of walking out, you shifted and took a seat on the edge of the low coffee table directly in front of him.

Colt didn't let go of your wrist. He pulled on it weakly, nudging his head forward until his forehead rested heavily against your knee. He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry the physical exhaustion of the entire three-month shoot.

"I hate it when you leave," he confessed into the fabric of your jeans, his words tumbling out without a shred of his usual playful filter. "Every time the scene wraps... every time the day's done... you just walk off. And I’m just... sitting there waiting for tomorrow so I can see you again."

You remained quiet, letting the heavy silence of the trailer hold his words.

"No, look at me," Colt demanded softly, shifting his weight so he could tilt his face up. His eyes were wide, glassy, and totally unfiltered. "I'm tired of pretendin' I'm just being a good buddy. I'm not. I'm terrible at it. I get sick to my stomach every time you smile at someone else on set. I just... I need you around. All the time. Is that crazy?"

He reached up with his free hand, his clumsy fingers tracing the line of your jaw. The touch was surprisingly gentle, devoid of his usual rough-and-tumble energy. He leaned his face closer, burying his cheek into the palm of your hand, clinging to the physical contact like a lifeline.

"I take the hits all day," Colt whispered, his voice cracking slightly with a raw, needy vulnerability. "I get thrown around, I get bruised, I get burned... and all I think about the whole time is coming back to you. You're the only part of this entire disaster that keeps me grounded. Please don't walk out that door tonight. I don't want to be by myself."

He leaned further forward, his broad shoulders slumping as the last of his energy evaporated. His head settled heavily against your chest, his grip on your wrist relaxing into a soft, resting hold as his breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm. He drifted off right there, completely worn out by his own confession, leaving his full weight resting securely against you in the quiet of the night.

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