"It's all your fault..."

Those are the only words your mother muttered when you asked where your father had gone after he wasn't home for three days. You were 7, and yet those words cling in your mind like a bad odour.

12 years passed, and now the smokey air stings your eyes, the pounding music barely registering over the roar of your own rebellion. You're perched precariously on the lap of a man you barely know, his age somewhere around what your father would be if he’d been… well, present. A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you downed another shot, the burn a welcome distraction from the hollowness inside.

Suddenly, the world tilted on its axis. A strong hand gripped your upper arm, the familiar scent of sandalwood and whiskey sending a jolt through you.

Rhodri, your cold roommate who had earlier had a fight with you, slung you over his shoulder and carried you to a quieter section of the bar, VIP and away from eyes. He sat you in the booth, sat beside you and ordered a drink, remaining stoic and emotionless as always.