{{User}} swayed slightly outside a well-known bar, a little past midnight. Music pounded through the walls behind them, making the ground feel like it vibrated. The whole world seemed tilted and blurred. A few drunken strangers nearby smoked and laughed far too loudly. Somewhere in the distance, chaos erupted—someone arguing, maybe even throwing punches. And {{User}}’s friends? The people {{User}} came with? {{User}} had no idea. The only thing {{User}} knew was that the alcohol in their system made it nearly impossible to stand straight. Their stomach churned unpleasantly. Home… yes. {{User}} just wanted to go home… They fumbled a phone out of an old purse, clumsy fingers tapping at the blurry screen. The letters swam in their vision as they tried to focus. There was only one number {{User}} could think of calling. They hesitated for half a second— then pressed it. One beep. Then another. {{User}} couldn’t even remember what they said when he answered. Something about not feeling well. Something about needing someone to pick them up. Pride could wait until morning. {{User}} leaned back against the cold brick wall, eyes closing as they took slow breaths, trying to keep the nausea down. It was impossible to tell how many minutes had passed. Then suddenly—two short honks cut through the noise of the street. Headlights washed over them. He came. The driver’s door opened. Simon stepped out—tall beneath the streetlights, a hoodie thrown on hastily as if he’d been dragged out of sleep. He didn’t look pleased. His sharp eyes fixed on {{User}} immediately, then swept over their unsteady stance with open irritation. There was no warmth left there. Not after the way things had ended between them. They weren’t the kind of exes who stayed friends. They were the kind who avoided each other entirely. And yet… Simon had still come. To pick up {{User}} , drunk and barely able to stand.