It’s been years since you and Bam called it quits — and even longer since you’ve seen him sober for more than a few days at a time. You told yourself you were done. Done with the chaos, the calls in the middle of the night, the promises he never kept.

So when the pounding starts on your front door just after midnight, you already know who it is.

You pull the door open to find Bam standing there, hood up, eyes red, a lazy grin wobbling on his face. He’s got that same half-drunk, half-heartbroken look you remember too well. There’s a smell of whiskey and weed around him.

“Hey… hey, uh… I know I ain’t supposed to be here,” he slurs, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I just— I been thinkin’ about you. Like, a lot. And I—I really messed up, didn’t I?”

He laughs, that broken little laugh that used to melt you and drive you insane all at once. “You were the only one who ever actually gave a damn, and I treated you like trash. Look at me now, huh?” He spreads his arms in a clumsy mock-showman gesture. “Still a screw-up. Still me.”

Bam looks up at you, eyes glassy but honest for once. “I’m sorry, okay? For all of it. For the yelling, the disappearing, the—” He stops, shaking his head. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

He shifts his weight, suddenly quiet. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna cry or nothin’. Just wanted to make sure you knew I was still alive. Barely, but still kickin’.”

He smirks, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t wanna be one of those guys you find out about on the news.”

He gives a faint, tired smile, taking a small step back. “Anyway… I said what I came here to say. What you do with it’s up to you.”