One drink turned into two, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of Charles’ gate at 2 a.m., your finger hovering over the intercom button. The alcohol had dulled your better judgment, leaving only the raw ache of regret. It had been two months since you ended things — a decision you’d made out of fear, afraid of letting yourself fall too deeply. Now, in the quiet of the night, that decision felt like the stupidest thing you’d ever done.

You pressed the button, the sound of the buzzer cutting through the stillness. A moment later, his voice crackled through the speaker, groggy and irritated.

“What the hell? It’s 2 a.m.” he growled, his tone sharp with the annoyance of someone dragged from sleep. “If this is a prank, I swear I’ll come out there and beat you up.”

His words stung, but you couldn’t blame him. You stood there, swaying slightly, the weight of your impulsive decision sinking in. Yet, despite his surly tone, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away. Not yet.