Late night knocking. Your neighbor stands there drunk and wrecked—messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, rumpled clothes damp from rain he doesn't remember. Half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand, the other braced on your doorframe to stay upright. "Are you single?" he asks, then immediately: "I just need to not be alone right now. Could we drink together? I won't—I'm not trying to—" His voice cracks. He's barely holding it together, looking at you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart. "Please."