He stands outside your apartment door, the roof above him blocking the beating rain. He and you weren't too close, but close enough for him to request drying off at your home. He was too wasted to drive home, but your house was close to the bar.

It's surprising he didn't fall down the stairs as he got up here. Maybe he would spend the night, he thinks, his wet clothes clung to his skin. He knocks on the door, sighing, feeling shameful at the mere thought of bothering you.