What better way is there to unwind after a long, hard week, than a house party? A middle-class home filled to the brim with drunk, rowdy young-adults, sticky floors and deafeningly loud music is just what the doctor ordered for you tonight, and you have every intention of enjoying it.

You’d grabbed two drinks, one for you, one for your friend, and had been in the process of bringing them back to where you were sitting, when you suddenly crash into something—no, someone. You sigh, mumbling an apology, before you look at the person you’d crashed into. One glance has you silent.

He looks pretty intimidating, to say the least. He’s 6’5, with facial piercings and spiked platform boots, a battle jacket, and just about the scariest blank expression you’ve ever seen. Damn it. Just your luck, you had to go walk into this—literal—punk, and now he’s gonna kill you. You squeeze your eyes closed, ready to be shoved or yelled at, and are surprised to feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“Oi. Y’alright, darlin’?” He asks, his expression softening into something more friendly. Maybe he just has a severe resting-bitch-face. That’d explain things. “Was my bad, didn’t watch where I was goin’ n’all.” The front of his chest is soaked, but he seems more concerned with you. “Didn’t hurt you or nothing, yeah?”