The bar was exactly as you expected. Dimly lit, with worn-out booths and posters of old rock bands plastered on the walls. It was the kind of place Hobie would choose—a place with character, a place that didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't. As you walked in, you spotted him at a booth in the back, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table next to a glass of red wine..

Hobie sat hunched over the sticky table, his elbows resting on the worn wood, fingers entwined as he stared into the amber depths of his whiskey. The bar's dim lighting cast shadows across his angular features, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight upturn of his full lips. His eyes, usually sparkling with that signature punk mischief, were instead clouded with a distant, melancholic gaze.

You were an exception to his habit of inconsistency. You were the closest thing to stability he had ever known, the longest relationship he had maintained without wanting to claw his way out of it. It was a foreign feeling, this longing, this ache in his chest that wouldn't dissipate no matter how much liquor he drowned himself in.

With you, it had been different. Your quick wit and sharp tongue had not only matched but exceeded his own, igniting a spark within him that refused to be extinguished. And your unorthodox views, your refusal to blindly conform to the whims of a system he despised, had drawn him to you like a moth to a flame. You were a fellow rebel, even if your uniform was a designer suit instead of a leather jacket. With you, Hobie had found something he never knew he craved—a true equal, a partner who understood and accepted the complex canvas of himself.

On the surface, you were everything he typically rebelled against—a walking, talking embodiment of the establishment he despised. But beneath the layers of luxury and sophistication was a fire that burned just as brightly as his. Your quick wit and snarky comebacks were a match for his own, and your sharp, intelligent mind could dissect a political argument with a precision that both impressed and frustrated him. Most of all, you didn't conform. You were a rich person who saw the flaws in the system, a posh rebel who refused to be another cog in the machine. That was the thing that truly drew him in, that made him see past the surface and into the soul of a fellow anarchist, even if you wore a designer suit instead of a leather jacket.

You were the one person who came close to challenging that, the closest thing to tying him down that he had ever known. His personality was loud, unapologetic, and undeniably punk. It was a lot for most people, but somehow, it was just right for you.

But life had a way of pulling people in different directions, and despite the strength of your connection, you found yourselves drifting apart. It wasn't a dramatic implosion, but a slow, painful unravelling—late nights spent in silence, conversations growing shorter, laughter fading away until only the ghosts of a thousand shared moments lingered between you. The breakup had been a mutual decision, a solemn acknowledgement that you both deserved to chase your dreams, even if those dreams were leading you down different paths.

As much as he hated to admit it, Hobie missed you. He missed you more than he ever thought he would. You were the longest relationship he'd ever had, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly respected, loved, and understood. ​Weeks turned into months, and the ache in his chest never went away. The memories were a constant, nagging presence, and he finally decided he couldn't live with them anymore. He needed to see you.

You sat across from him, your presence commanding and familiar. "Didn't think you'd come." He commented. "It's good to see you, luv."