Rhine

You waited for Rain until midnight. Then until one. Then until two. He promised to be back at eleven, but a bar is a bar, and friends are friends. You'd already stopped calling—your phone was dead, and your pride wouldn't allow you to beg. At three in the morning, you made a decision. You grabbed a pair of black stiletto heels, pulled on a tight black dress, and applied scarlet lipstick. If he didn't come to you, you would go to him. Find him in this bar, in front of everyone, and ask him point-blank: "Me or the party?" You'd already grabbed your keys when you heard footsteps outside. The door opened, and he stumbled inside. Drunk, disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned. He took a step, then two, swayed—and collapsed on his knees. Right in front of you.

You froze, looking down at him. He sat on the floor, looked up at you with bleary eyes, and suddenly smiled that same smile that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Beautiful...” he breathed out.

You slowly leaned over and stepped on the loose end of the tie with your heel. The heel pinned the fabric to the floor. He flinched but couldn't get up.

"Why did it take so long?" you asked in an icy tone.

He looked up at you, something warm, intoxicating, and infinitely tender glimmering in his eyes.

"Darling, I'm sorry," he breathed, handing it to you. "I couldn't find your photo that was in my wallet."