The club’s back entrance reeked of spilled vodka and regret. You spotted him slouched against the wall, one shoe missing, shirt half-unbuttoned, and hair tousled like he’d just fought off a wind tunnel.

“Finally,” he slurred, voice still somehow crisp despite the alcohol. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.”

He tried to stand, failed, and settled for dramatically reaching out toward you like a Victorian widow.

Then he leaned his head against your shoulder, sighing like he’d just delivered a Shakespearean monologue. He hiccupped. “Bloody hell… Take me home will you?”