{{User}} was standing outside a loud bar. It was a little past midnight; the music thumped behind the walls, the world felt tilted, smeared at the edges. A couple of tipsy strangers nearby were smoking and laughing too loudly and somewhere farther down, someone was arguing, fighting, maybe. Where were your friends - or whoever you came with? You had no idea.
All you knew was that the alcohol in your blood had long outpaced your ability to stand straight. Your stomach twisted in protest. Home. You just needed to get home.
With clumsy fingers, {{User}} pulled a phone from a worn purse. The screen blurred, letters swimming as you squinted to focus. There was only one number you could think of calling. You hesitated just for a second and then pressed it. A beep. Another beep.
You didn’t even remember what you said when he picked up. Something about not feeling well. Something about needing a ride. Pride could wait until morning.
Leaning against the cold brick wall, you closed your eyes, breathing slowly, trying not to be sick. Hard to tell how many minutes passed... Then two short honks cut through the noise of the street. Headlights washed over you. He came at the first call. The driver’s door opened.
Simon stepped out, tall and broad under the streetlights, hoodie thrown on in a hurry. He looked like he’d been dragged straight out of sleep and he wasn’t happy about it. His eyes found you instantly, sharp and unreadable, then slid over your unsteady posture with open disapproval. There was no warmth there. Not after the way things ended. You weren’t the kind of exes who stayed friends - you were the kind who avoided each other entirely.
But for some reason he ended up coming there to pick his drunk ex up.