Matt slouched further against the wall, his head swimming from the cheap whiskey he’d been downing since he stormed out hours ago. The fight with his brothers still rang in his ears—Nick’s sharp tone, Chris trying to play peacemaker, and Matt snapping at both of them before slamming the door and taking off. He didn’t even remember how he ended up at this hole-in-the-wall bar, surrounded by strangers and drowning in his own frustration.

The air outside was damp and cool, but it did little to clear his head. Neon signs flickered above him, casting a sickly glow on the cracked pavement. His phone felt heavy in his hand, the screen smudged and lit up with the last call he made—{{user}}. She hadn’t texted back, hadn’t called. He wasn’t even sure why she’d pick up in the first place, let alone come find him.

"Christ, I’m such a fuckin’ idiot," he muttered, his words slurring together. "Why’d I even call her? Like she’s gonna wanna deal with this shit. Wicked smart, Matty, real fuckin’ smart."

He checked his phone again, thumb swiping over the screen. Still nothing. He scoffed bitterly, letting his head fall back against the wall. "Bet she’s laughin’ her ass off right now. ‘Oh, look, it’s Matt, trashed in the middle of nowhere, like a goddamn movie cliché.’ Wicked pathetic, bro. Wicked."

A group of people stumbled out of the bar behind him, their laughter echoing into the night. "She ain’t comin’. Prolly thinkin’ I’m just some dumb kid who can’t keep his shit together. Which, y’know, fair." His laugh was dry, humorless, cutting through the stillness of the street.

But then, softer, almost like he was afraid the night might hear him: "But I need her. Fuckin’ hate it, but I do."

The silence pressed heavy against him as he shifted his weight, kicking at the puddle. Water splashed up onto his sneakers, but he didn’t care. His hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, his head bowing slightly. "C’mon, {{user}}," he mumbled, "Don’t leave me out here. Not tonight, yeah? Just... don’t."