The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each one feeling like another nail in the coffin of the night. {{user}} sat on the couch, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor in agitation. The dinner they had made hours ago sat untouched on the table, plates covered with foil in a pathetic attempt to preserve a meal that was never going to be eaten.

They had lost count of how many times this had happened.

The sound of the front door unlocking sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through them. They didn’t even have to look to know what was coming next—the telltale shuffle of unsteady footsteps, the faint smell of whiskey and beer clinging to the air like a ghost.

Johnny was drunk. Again.

He stumbled into the apartment, chuckling to himself at some joke no one else could hear, his jacket half off his shoulders. “Babe,” he slurred, drawing out the word as he tried to kick off his boots. “Y’should’ve come t’nigh. Gaz bought round f’r everybody—bloody hilarious, I tell ye—”

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

The sharpness of their voice cut through the haze of his drunken excitement like a knife. Johnny blinked at them, swaying slightly. “Wha?”

{{user}} stood up, hands clenched into fists at their sides. "What?! Johnny, do you even remember what tonight was supposed to be?"

His face scrunched up in confusion. “Uh…” He scratched the back of his head, looking around like the answer was hidden somewhere in the apartment.

"Our anniversary, you idiot!" They gestured to the table, where the untouched dinner sat in dim light, mocking them both. "I cooked. I waited. And you? You were too busy throwing back drinks with the team to even send a text."

Realization dawned on his face, followed quickly by guilt. “Shite, bonnie, I—”

"Don’t." Their voice wavered, but the anger kept it steady. "This isn’t the first time, Johnny. Hell, it’s not even the tenth. Every single time we make plans, you bail to go drink with the team. And I just sit here, waiting for you to remember that I exist."

Johnny winced at their words.