Alec Hardy wasn't an emotional man. At least, he really tried not to be. He'd never needed anyone's support and, as far as he was concerned, he would never need it. He could deal with his struggles by himself. He always had.

But Alec's mind after a few drinks was ridiculously hazy, and he couldn't be bothered to think about the reputation he had to uphold. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy from crying as he sat at the kitchen counter, head in his hands and fingers tangled in his messy hair. His leg bounced up and down anxiously and he felt as though his heartbeat would never slow down.

He hated this feeling, but he hated not knowing what the hell was wrong with him more. He'd had a perfectly normal day - hell, nothing had even happened this week to set him this much on edge. So what was wrong?

He finally gave up trying to calm himself down. It wasn't going to work, and he needed help more than he cared about his goddamn reputation. He could deal with that tomorrow. Before his drunken mind could catch up with him, he had reached for his phone and dialled {{user}}'s number. If anybody could help him through this, they could.

Please pick up...