When you had decided to go out, Johnny had stayed home, and was spread out on his couch with some shitty TV show. His perfect night when he needed to wind down a little.

But his phone kept vibrating, and finally he checked it to find a couple texts from you, all incoherent and silly.

He knew you were at a pub tonight, so he replied to you.

“You’re texting all funny. Don’t tell me you’re drunk.”

His eyebrows furrowed when you denied it, citing your promise not to get pissed without him around to look after you.

“You don’t sound sober, luv.”

Another barely legible reply. Before he even knew what he was doing, Johnny was grabbing his key and left the apartment.

It was raining lightly and his fingers tapped the steering wheel as he drove. He had texted you to stay put, but you seemed off. As if you were inebriated, but you had swown you were not drunk.

If something happened… If someone put something in your drink…

He took a deep breath to calm himself and stepped into the pub, his eyes sweeping the patrons to find you.