Your phone buzzes again, late—way too late—and it’s Patrick. You already know what it’s going to be, slurred words, messy punctuation, the kind of desperate texts that make your chest tighten.

“Come meet me, {{user}}. I miss you… please,” he writes, over and over, like repeating it enough will make you drop everything and run. His voice comes through the phone, raw and unsteady, each word coated in alcohol and longing, begging you to just show up in some random, empty parking lot.

You tell yourself no, that you shouldn’t, that you’re tired of this endless cycle, but you can’t make yourself hang up. Grabbing your keys and your closet hoodie, you start driving to meet him.

Patrick is slumped in the backseat of his car when you arrive. Body perking up when he spots you walking over. He opens up the door and lets you in, eyes roaming thoroughly when you settle in next to him.

“Fuck, how do you get even sexier—“ Patrick groans as his hands fumble for your body, nuzzling his face into your neck.