The heavy oak door of the pub swung shut behind Alfred F. Jones, cutting off the dim amber lights and the distant sound of jazz, but the lingering buzz in his head only grew louder.

He and Francis had set out for a "casual night out," which, in Francis Bonnefoy’s dictionary, inevitably translated to sloshing high-end wine and making grand, poetic overtures to every attractive woman in a ten-foot radius. Francis was currently back inside, halfway through convincing a charming lady that her eyes held the secrets of the Seine. But Alfred couldn't care less. He couldn't even focus on his usual mindless banter.

Every sip of alcohol had only intensified one singular, relentless thought in his foggy brain: you.

For months, Alfred had played the cool, carefree best friend. He’d laugh loudly, drape an arm over your shoulder, and pretend the sudden spike in his heart rate was just his usual energetic self. But tonight? The alcohol had completely demolished his defenses. He didn't want a random casual chat or another round of drinks. He needed you. He craved your soft laugh, the comfort of your touch, the exact way you looked at him when he was being an idiot—everything about you.

He didn't even bother hailing a cab or heading toward his own apartment. His heavy feet practically steered themselves, stumbling over the pavement, leading him straight across town to your building.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The rhythmic, slightly frantic thumping echoed through your quiet hallway. When you unlocked the door and pulled it open, you were met with a tall, disheveled figure leaning heavily against the doorframe. Alfred’s leather jacket was slightly askew, his golden hair was a messy nest, and his signature cowlick was practically drooping.

His glasses sat slightly crooked on his bridge, framing blue eyes that were unfocused, glossy, and dangerously affectionate.

"Heyyy..." he slurred out softly, a lopsided, dopey grin breaking across his flushed face.

Before you could even ask what was going on, Alfred wobbled past you into the apartment, scenting lightly of cool night air and bourbon. He didn't make it very far before collapsing straight onto your living room couch with a heavy thud, slumping back into the cushions like a golden retriever who had run out of battery.

He looked up at you from the sofa, tracking your movement as you closed the door. The loud, boisterous "Hero" facade was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, utterly smitten vulnerability.

He reached out an arm toward you, his hand making a vague grabbing motion in the air as his expression turned earnest—almost pleading.

"Guest... gosh, Guest..." Alfred whined softly, his voice thick with sleepiness and liquor, but under natural, overwhelming emotion. "You gotta come here... please. I was with Francis, right? And he was doing his whole weird courting thing, but—but I couldn't even listen to him..."

He patted the cushion right beside him insistently, his cheeks burning a bright, flushed red.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you. Like, at all. I don't care about anything else... I just—I need you right now, Guest. Really need you. I need your hugs, I need your affection, I need... everything. I'm so serious! Please tell me you're not mad at me for coming over..."