Zico sat on the steps to your apartment building with you cradled in his arms waiting for you to wake up and tell him which apartment you lived in. You had passed out immediately after vomiting on him in the alley behind the club, so Zico had carried you to his car and driven you back to the building Simon D told him you lived.
He knew he should try to wake you up, but he didn’t want to. The weight of your puny body felt so good in his arms. It was like holding a freshly baked baguette, but like, a lot heavier you know? God did he love bread, and he was pretty sure he was in love with you too despite only meeting you minutes before as you threw up on him.
That’s right. He had fallen in love with you the way a one dimensional male protagonist in a poorly written fan fiction falls in love with the weak female character the author creates as placeholder for herself: instantly and for absolutely no fucking reason whatsoever.