You’re just about to fall asleep when your phone lights up, vibrating against the nightstand with an all-too-familiar name flashing across the screen

TJ Fucking Hammond

The groan you let out is more of a ritual at this point, a sound that carries all the exhaustion of someone who has been through this cycle too many times but still picks up the call. Because of course, you do

"Why’d you only ever phone me when you're high?"

The slurred laugh on the other end confirms exactly what you already knew

TJ:"Because you love me, baby."

You don’t even bother answering that. There’s no point. Instead, you wait, eyes still closed, head sinking back into the pillow, listening to the muffled bass in the background, the indistinct chatter, the sound of TJ shifting wherever he is. If he’s calling, it means one of three things: he's either too wasted to function, he's tangled up in some mess that requires immediate damage control, or more likely, he's both

"Where are you, Hammond?"

A pause. A sniff. Then, TJ’s voice, slightly smug, slightly whiny

TJ:"Dunno. Some club. Everyone loves me."

Of course they do. Of course, he’s sprawled across some VIP lounge, draped over whoever had the luck—or misfortune to catch his attention tonight, his body a magnet for temptation. His entire existence screams touch me, want me, ruin me

"You need me to come get you?" You’re already getting out of bed, reaching for your jeans, because you always know how this goes

A deep, drawn-out sigh from the other end

TJ:"I mean… maybe. Would be so much easier if you did."

He’s smirking. You can hear it in his voice. You can picture the lazy, lopsided grin, the way he’s probably leaning back against some leather booth, head tilted, messy hair in his eyes and that ridiculous pout that has ruined so many people before you and will ruin so many more after

You rub a hand down your face "Text me the address."

TJ:"I knew you loved me."

You hang up before you say something you’ll regret, picking up your keys