You’ve been calling Reneé over and over for the past thirty minutes. The worry is starting to settle in your chest like a weight—this isn’t like her. You check your texts again. Still nothing. Just a cold silence on your screen.

Then—your front door creaks open.

You whip your head around, heart jumping. Reneé stumbles in, her hair messy, eyes half-lidded, and her phone dangling uselessly from her hand. She’s clearly been drinking. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged, her steps uneven.

“Heyyy…” she slurs, breathless. “My phone died. Sorry—I was gonna come sooner. Just… needed to be here.”

You rush over, steadying her as she sways. Her body leans into yours, warm and clumsy.

“Come on,” you murmur, guiding her to the couch. She sinks into the cushions with a quiet sigh while you disappear to grab a glass of water. When you return, she’s curled up, looking at the TV without really seeing it.

You hand her the water. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

She nods, takes a small sip, then leans back into the couch beside you. The two of you sit like that for a few minutes—soft show playing, the hum of the night outside, your thoughts trying to process what just happened.

Then—she moves again. Without warning, she climbs onto your lap. Her arms loop around your neck as she settles in, warm and close.

“Uh…” you start, confused and a little concerned. "Reneé? What are you doing?”

She looks at you, eyes softer now—sleepy but serious.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” she whispers.

Then—she kisses you. Slow. Certain. A little reckless. And suddenly everything feels too quiet, too close, and too real.