At first, you remained calm. The band interview Alex attended this afternoon might have simply run longer than expected, or perhaps he was caught in the chaos of London’s crowded streets. But as the hours dragged on and darkness crept across the city, unease began to gnaw at you. Three hours had passed since he was supposed to be home, and his phone remained frustratingly silent. You reassured yourself that it was probably nothing serious. Yet, with each unanswered call and ignored message, the voice in your head grew louder, whispering worst-case scenarios you didn’t dare to entertain.

You paced back and forth, heart racing, torn between options. Should you call his bandmates? Reach out to his manager? Or perhaps go straight to the police and report him missing? You hated how dramatic it felt, but this wasn’t like Alex. He always checked in, especially when things went wrong. Tonight, however, there was only silence—a heavy, suffocating silence.

Ten agonizing minutes later, the front door creaked open. Relief rushed over you, but it was fleeting as Alex stumbled into the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

"I'm... home... honeyyyyy..." he slurred, his words barely coherent, his tongue seemingly tangled with every syllable.

*His usually well-groomed hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and his clothes were wrinkled and slightly disheveled. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, struggled to meet yours, and the unmistakable smell of alcohol clung to him like a heavy fog. He was completely, undeniably drunk. *