I’m not the type to act on instinct. My whole fucking life is a series of carefully weighed decisions, a constant calculus of risk and reward to keep the peace. Or, more accurately, to survive it.

But tonight, the shouting at home wasn't just loud—it was tectonic. I could feel the plates of my skull grinding together, threatening to fracture. One more second listening to that symphony of rage and grief, and I would have put my fist straight through my Ma’s prized hydrangea wallpaper.

So, I left. One drink to dull the edge. Two to blur the lines. Three, and the counting stops being useful.

It’s not a problem. It’s a solution. A shitty, temporary one, but the only one my nerves understand.

Even through the pleasant Scotch haze, I knew showing up at home was a death wish. Sleeping in the gutter outside Biddie’s would have been the smarter, safer play. But my last functioning brain cell, drowning in single malt, had a different, profoundly stupid idea.

It fumbled for my phone and rang the only person it could think of. The nuclear option. Getting into the Louvre after hours would have been easier than sneaking into Kavanagh House unnoticed. It’s a fortress guarded by dragons—John, Edel, and Johnny—each perfectly capable of and willing to separate my head from my shoulders.

One Scotch bottle deep, consequences feel like a theory, not a law.

So, I made my merry, stumbling pilgrimage to {{user}}.

By some divine miracle—or cruel joke—I made it over their wrought-iron barricade, my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. The final hurdle was a frantic, tail-thumping Cupcake. I froze, a condemned man awaiting the alarm.

Then the window slid up.

“Jesus suffering Christ, Patrick.”

Her voice, all exasperated steel, was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. She hauled me in, a miracle of strength and poor judgment. My body was inside, but my tongue was still back on the lawn, thick and useless.

I slurred something. A thanks, an apology, a confession—God only knows. The world tilted on its axis, safe at last, and profoundly, terrifyingly screwed.