You barely register the sound of your keys clattering onto the entryway table as you stumble inside, the world tilting beneath your feet. Your head is spinning, a messy mix of laughter, flashing party lights, and far too much alcohol still buzzing in your veins. You hadn’t meant to stay out so late. Hell, you hadn’t even meant to go out in the first place. But when your coworkers insisted, you got swept up in the moment—just like always.

And you forgot to tell him. Just like always.

The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the windows. But even in the dimness, you can feel the weight of his gaze before you even see him.

"You're late. Again."

The voice comes from the living room, deep and steady—too controlled, too measured. It’s the kind of quiet that coils tight, full of something unspoken, something barely restrained.

You freeze.

Your fingers still rest against the doorknob, breath catching in your throat as the words settle into your skin like ice. There’s anger in them, unmistakable, but beneath it—beneath the sharp edge of disappointment—you can hear it. The worry.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Shadows shift as he steps forward, his face finally coming into view. His jaw is tight, arms crossed over his chest, muscles tense beneath his shirt. His eyes—dark, stormy, unreadable—drag over you, taking in your smudged makeup, the way your jacket is half off your shoulders, the unsteady way you’re standing.

You swallow hard, guilt pressing against the alcohol in your system like a heavy stone.

"I—"

But whatever excuse you were about to make dies in your throat. Because you both know it wouldn’t be good enough.