The neon lights blur at the edges. Your head feels light, laughter sticking in your throat. The bar’s crowded, noisy — bodies pressed too close, music vibrating through your ribs.

You shouldn’t. God, you really shouldn’t.

But your thumb drifts over the contact saved under a name no one would guess: H. A breath you didn’t know you were holding leaves your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you hit call.

“What’s wrong?” The answer comes almost to quickly.

His voice slices through the noise in your head — sharp, cold, then softening at the edges when he hears you slurring your words.

“Where are you?”

You laugh, a nervous, tipsy laugh that tastes a little like panic.

“Hey… I, um, I shouldn’t be calling, right? But… I just… I didn’t know who else to—”

“Where are you.”

Not quite a question this time. The quiet demand of someone used to being obeyed.

You mumble the name of the bar. Your voice cracks, embarrassed, small.

“I’m fine, really. Just… maybe a little drunk.”

There’s a breath on the other end. You picture the way his jaw tenses when he’s annoyed, the tilt of his head when he’s deciding how to react.

“Of course you called me,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost amused. “You always do.”

Your pulse jumps, heat rising to your cheeks. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the truth in his words.

“You shouldn’t be there,” he says, tone cooling again. “You shouldn’t be anywhere like that. Not without me.”

You hear something dangerous behind it — something possessive, threaded with an edge of care so sharp it could cut.

“I’ll come get you,” he decides, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for argument.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice drops, something low and velvet dark. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

“Why’d you call me?” he asks, quieter now, almost gentle. “Of all people.”

Your tongue feels heavy, honesty slipping out past your defenses.

“Because… I knew you’d come.”

Silence. You hear his breath catch — a sound so small it almost doesn’t reach your ear.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard. “Yeah. I would.”

The music pounds, people laugh, but you feel strangely calm. You know, with a certainty that terrifies and comforts you, that he’ll appear — not because he should, but because somehow, impossibly, you matter to him.

Even if you can’t explain why.

And as the minutes stretch, you can almost see it: the door swinging open, eyes burning like blue fire, searching the room — and finding you.