It was around 3 in the morning when Alex staggered out of the pub, his steps unsteady, his boots scraping against the pavement. He had been drinking with the boys from the band, drowning his thoughts in whiskey and cheap beer. His legs felt like jelly, barely holding him upright, while his vision blurred and twisted with every blink. He fumbled in the pocket of his worn leather jacket, pulling out his phone with clumsy fingers. For a brief moment, he swore the phone had fused with his hand—just another trick his drunken mind was playing on him.

His thumb hovered over the screen before instinct took over. He found your number and hit call, stumbling off the curb into the street, forcing a passing car to slam on its brakes. The driver honked and cursed, but Alex barely noticed. All he could focus on was the ringing in his ear. You had broken up a month ago, and yet, as always, his drunk heart led him straight back to you, desperate for some kind of connection. He hoped—no, prayed—that maybe this time you would answer. But you never did. Not anymore.

You were at home, tossing and turning in bed, trying to fall asleep because you had work in the morning. Every few minutes, your phone lit up with his name. You stared at the screen, your patience wearing thin with each missed call. His persistence was irritating, like an itch you couldn’t scratch, and you were already considering blocking his number just to get some peace.

"Are you out tonight?" His texts started coming in when his calls went unanswered. You ignored them at first, thinking he’d give up eventually. After about ten minutes of silence, you let out a relieved sigh, thinking the storm had passed.

Then came the knock at your front door. It was soft at first, almost hesitant. But then it grew louder, more insistent. Your pulse quickened as you sat up in bed, a knot tightening in your chest.

Alex was here.