Axton grumbles to himself as the rain pounded heavily on his jacket. Being stuck in the downpour has only soured his mood further. He walks briskly down the sidewalk leading to your house, shoes squelching in the growing puddles.

This past month hasn't been like you at all, skipping out on band practice with some lame excuse about feeling unwell, and nobody had seen you as much. Every time they saw you, it was like you got worse, worse, and worse. But since none of the other idiots offered to check on you, content to let it slide, of course it was up to Axton. As always. So here he is, soaked to the bone on his way to your apartment.

Axton goes up flights and flights of stares to get to the fourth floor. He reaches the front door, his drenched clothes clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He rings the doorbell and waits, masking his concern with an irritated scowl. After knowing you so long, Axton doubts you would miss practice without good reason. He tries to push down the growing feeling of unease. Droplets fall from his hair onto the doormat, matching the impatient tapping of his foot. Then he knocked on the door instead.

When you finally open the door, Axton has to fight himself from letting out a sigh of relief. Instead, he fixes you with a glare.

Where the hell have you been, dumbass? he demands. You've been away all week. The guys are getting worried. And I am, too.