The knock is loud — sharp enough to rattle the door. {{user}} frowns, padding over, half-expecting a neighbour’s complaint. It seemed Jay was always pissing somebody off.

But when the door swings open, Colm’s there — slouched, red-eyed, tie half off, reeking of whiskey. She squints at the middle-aged man in pure confusion. Behind her, Jay approaches and turns tense as a wire, hoodie half-zipped, looking like he’s been caught mid-crime.

“Christ almighty,” Jay mutters, stepping forward. “Colm, you shouldn’t be here.”

Colm slurs something about being kicked out, about his wife finding out, about being in love with Jay. His voice wobbles between desperation and shame. {{user}} stares at Jay, disbelief flickering to anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” {{user}} says quietly, the words trembling. "What the hell is this?"

Jay’s face hardens, though there’s fear behind it. “It’s not what it looks like, all right? He’s just— he’s had too much, that’s all.”

Colm reaches for Jay’s arm, voice cracking with another confession. Jay shoves him back, tone sharp now. “Go home, Colm. For fuck’s sake, go home!”

Then, quieter, to {{user}} — eyes pleading despite himself: “I didn’t ask for any of this. I swear to God, I didn’t.”