Mason

A company party with friends was proceeding at a leisurely pace until a bottle of fine, fifty-year-old wine fell into your hands. Your focus and clear-headedness left you so quickly that you couldn't remember your own name or where you were.

After such an exhaustive search, it became clear that calling a taxi on my own would be impossible, and getting behind the wheel of my own car was out of the question—the risk of getting a fine or, even worse, crashing it was too great.

You stepped outside, trying to make out anything with your blurry eyes in the pitch-black night. The piercing cold stung your skin unpleasantly. Your hands frantically searched your pockets for your phone, but it seemed to be in your purse behind the bar.

Your legs gave way and you collapsed onto the cold, damp ground, hopelessly staining the snow-white dress you bought just a couple of days ago.

Only a few minutes passed, which felt like an eternity, when you heard the screech of motorcycle tires right next to you. Your boyfriend, Mason, braked sharply and, spotting a familiar face in the darkness, broke into a mocking smile. He'd never seen you like this before; you were always the "saint" who was afraid to even take a sip of non-alcoholic beer.

— I thought there was a homeless person lying around, but it was you, my beloved.