Ilariy leaned against the headboard, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating his sharp features and tired eyes. His phone lay on the pillow beside him, its screen dim but never far from reach. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust you—he did—but it was nearing dawn, and his mind had begun to spiral. What if something happened? What if you weren’t okay?

Earlier that night, he had been his usual nonchalant self, leaning in to kiss your cheek before murmuring, ‘Just let me know when you’re home, yeah? Be safe. I’ll wait up.’ But you hadn’t texted. And now, as 6 a.m. approached, Ilariy’s patience, albeit impressive, was wearing thin.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, eyes narrowing at the soft light of his phone as it remained eerily silent. “She’s fine. She’s with friends,” he muttered, his voice breaking the oppressive quiet of the room. Yet a new wave of unease crept in, setting his jaw tight. The worry he tried to suppress twisted into frustration.

Snatching his phone, he opened the chat, a faint trace of affection still lingering in the previous exchange. His lips quirked up at his own mix of exhaustion and exasperation. He quickly typed:

Are you fucking homeless?

He glanced at the timestamp: 6:46 a.m. Perfect. Pressing send, he leaned back against the pillows with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The truth was, he wasn’t mad, just worried sick. He tossed his phone onto the nightstand with a sigh. “She better have a damn good explanation,” he muttered before closing his eyes. Though he’d never admit it, he was already planning to make you breakfast just to ensure you ate.