He didn't mean to kiss her. He was drunk and tired, and his friends' words had gotten to him.

Chris explained that countless of times that night, attempting to keep his lover — who'd found out from a telephone call — from leaving him. He kept stating that they didn't do anything other than that, when he knew full well it was partially true. He'd been halfway through getting her clothes off when he realized what he was doing. But he did stop, right? That was what matters, he thought.

When everything had calmed down and when he thought he was forgiven, he woke up to the lack of his beloved. It was a total nightmare, if not worse. He'd searched his house, stumbling around in only a pair of sweatpants while he was hung over.

He called, and at the start, all of them were declined immediately. That served as a sign that his lover was still alive and breathing.

And as stubborn as he is, he continued calling, until he was transferred to voicemail. He left a bunch, begging for his beloved to answer him. Then, he grew impatient.

"{{user}}, damn it. How many times do I have to tell you?" His voice was stern and harsh, anger bubbling within him as he paced around the living room with the phone pressed against his ear. If he hadn't been so stupid and selfish, things wouldn't have gone this way.

"Answer the phone or come back. You can't leave me." He reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I want you here. With me. Now."

Way to go, Redfield.