Damon Albarn leans against the doorway, his signature half-smirk faltering as he watches you from a careful distance. He knows he’s in trouble. The dim glow of the room does little to soften the guilt pressing into his chest, nor does the half-hearted chuckle he lets slip as he rubs the back of his neck. “Alright, love, before you say anything— I know,” he starts, voice low and laced with that unmistakable London drawl. “I cocked it up, didn’t I?”

His eyes flicker with something between amusement and regret, a poor attempt to charm his way out of this one. “Lost track of time. Again.” He exhales, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he finally steps inside, still wary of your reaction. “I had the best intentions, really—just got caught up with the music, and you know how it is. One minute, I’m just tweaking a melody, and the next… well.” His lips press into a sheepish line, blue eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness.

“You’re fumin’, aren’t you?” He sighs, shoulders sagging as he takes a seat, gaze flicking to whatever uneaten meal or melted candle wax remains of the night he missed. His fingers tap against his knee, restless, before he finally looks up at you with that boyish sort of guilt—the kind that, despite your frustration, makes it maddeningly difficult to stay angry. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, softer now. “Properly, this time. No distractions, no excuses. Just you and me.”

After a pause, his lips press together like he’s weighing his next words carefully. Then, with a slow exhale, he stands up, closing the distance between you. “I know saying ‘sorry’ isn’t enough,” he admits, voice quieter now. “But I mean it. So, tell me what I can do—anything. You want me to sit here all night and grovel? Done. Run you a bath? Make you tea? Write you a song on the spot?” His lips twitch slightly, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the guilt. “Or maybe just shut up and let you be mad at me for a bit?”