The music inside the club was so loud, it felt like it could shake bones.
Flashing neon lights pulsed through the dark room like a heartbeat gone wild. Bodies moved in waves across the dance floor-laughing, screaming, drinking, kissing-but in the corner booth, someone was no longer moving much.
"Shit, he's out cold again," said Raka, staring at the slumped figure next to him.
Leo was practically lying across the leather couch, one arm dangling to the floor, the other holding a nearly empty bottle of vodka. His black T-shirt was wrinkled, his leather jacket half-off one shoulder, and his head tilted back as he let out a low groan.
"He drank three bottles by himself," said Evan, crouching in front of Leo and trying to snap his fingers in front of his face. "Hey, Leo. Leo, bro, you with us?"
Leo blinked slowly, then smirked. "Why is the room... spinning?"
"Because you're completely wasted," Evan muttered.
Raka sighed and shoved his phone into his pocket. "Alright, we're taking him home. I'm not staying here all night waiting for him to puke on the floor."
Leo mumbled something no one understood and waved a hand in the air like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.
Evan and Raka grabbed him by the arms and lifted him up. He groaned again and leaned heavily on both of them, barely able to keep his head up.
As they dragged him through the club, several people turned to stare. Some laughed, some looked annoyed, but Leo didn't notice any of it. He was too far gone.
Outside, the air was colder. The city lights blurred in Leo's eyes like smudged paint.
"Where's the car?" Evan asked.
Raka unlocked the black SUV and opened the backseat. "Throw him in. I'll drive."
Evan nodded, and together, they shoved Leo into the back. He immediately sprawled across the seat and started mumbling about how the moon had three faces and one of them was frowning.
Evan chuckled. "Drunk Leo is weird."
"Drunk Leo is a disaster," Raka said, slamming the door and walking around to the driver's side.
The drive to Leo's house was mostly quiet, except for Leo occasionally yelling things like "No onions!" and "The floor feels like marshmallows!"
By the time they reached the front gate of Leo's house, it was nearly 2:00 in the morning.
"Help me get him to the door," Raka said, parking the car and getting out.
Evan nodded and opened the backseat. "Come on, sleeping beauty."
Leo groaned again as they pulled him out of the car. He tried to walk, but his legs were barely cooperating, so they ended up dragging him like a sack of potatoes toward the front porch.
As soon as they rang the bell, the door opened-revealing Mr. Reinhart, Leo's father, standing in a robe with a stormy look on his face.
Behind him stood Mrs. Reinhart, Leo's mother, arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line.
"Oh, look who's finally home," Mr. Reinhart said in a dangerously calm voice.
Leo barely lifted his head. "Hey... Dad. Mom. You guys look like twins tonight..."
"Is he drunk again?" Mrs. Reinhart asked, her tone cold.
"Like, super drunk," Evan answered. "Sorry, Uncle. Auntie. We tried to stop him-"
"Don't bother explaining," Mr. Reinhart cut him off. "Get him inside."
They helped Leo through the doorway, and he stumbled in, almost knocking over a side table. His mother flinched as he bumped into the wall.
"Leo Reinhart!" she snapped. "It's two in the morning! You smell like a damn bar!"
"Correction," Leo slurred. "I am the bar."
"Do you think this is funny?" his father snapped. "You've been doing this every weekend!"
Leo blinked at him, swaying slightly. "I'm twenty. I can handle myself."
"You can't even walk straight!"
Mrs. Reinhart shook her head in disbelief. "You're destroying yourself, Leo. This isn't a game anymore."
Leo gave a crooked smile and patted his chest dramatically. "This... is my lifestyle."
"That's it!" Mr. Reinhart shouted. "Upstairs. Now. Before I lose my temper."
Leo rolled his eyes, turned around, and started walking-bumping into the wall twice before managing to climb the stairs.
"He's out of control," his mother muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We have to do something before he kills himself."
Mr. Reinhart didn't answer. His eyes were still on the stairs, his jaw tight.
---
Meanwhile, Leo reached his room, somehow managed to push the door open, and stumbled inside.
He didn't bother turning on the lights.
He didn't take off his shoes.
He didn't change clothes.
He collapsed onto his bed face-first, the scent of alcohol clinging to his skin and clothes, and passed out almost instantly-shoes on, jacket still on his shoulders, the sound of his parents still faintly echoing in the hallway outside.
But Leo didn't care.
He never did.
And yet, something deep in his chest buried beneath all the noise, the liquor, and the fake bravado-felt a little heavier that night.
The next morning arrived like a slap to the face.
Leo's eyes cracked open just enough to realize sunlight was pouring in through the curtains, making his pounding headache ten times worse. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his throat dry, and his back ached from sleeping in his clothes.
He groaned.
His jacket was still wrapped around him, his jeans were digging into his waist, and his shoes-God, he was still wearing them. The sheets were twisted beneath him, and his face was half-smashed into the pillow.
He didn't remember getting into bed. Or maybe he never got in properly.
The memories were fuzzy.
There were lights. Music. Vodka. Laughter. The taste of something bitter. A car door. His father's angry face. His mom yelling. And then-nothing.
Leo sat up slowly, holding his head. "Ugh... never again," he muttered.
He said that every weekend.
But the pain didn't stop him. It never did.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, yanked off his jacket, and splashed cold water on his face. The mirror reflected a mess-his hair looked like a bird's nest, his eyes were red and tired, and there was a faint purple bruise on his jaw from when he hit the wall last night.
"Perfect," he muttered, grabbing a towel.
His stomach twisted again, but he managed to keep it in. He brushed his teeth, threw on a fresh T-shirt, and finally kicked off his shoes that had been on for almost twelve hours straight.
As he walked downstairs, the tension in the house hit him like a wall.
The smell of eggs and coffee was in the air, but it didn't bring comfort. It brought dread.
He found his parents in the dining room, both quiet, sipping their drinks with unreadable expressions.
"Morning," he muttered.
His father raised an eyebrow. "It's noon."
Leo sat down across from them, reaching for a glass of water. "Fine. Noon. Whatever."
Mrs. Reinhart didn't look at him. "Are you proud of yourself?"
"No," Leo replied, voice flat. "But I feel amazing, thanks for asking."
His father put down his cup hard. "Cut the attitude, Leo."
Leo didn't reply. He drank the water instead.
His mother sighed. "We didn't raise you to be like this."
"Like what?" Leo asked. "I'm not hurting anyone."
"You're hurting yourself," she snapped. "Do you think you can keep living like this forever?"
"Maybe," he said with a bitter smile. "If I die young, I won't have to hear these lectures."
Mr. Reinhart slammed his palm on the table. "Don't joke about that."
Leo's smile faded.
"I'm not joking."
The room went still.
"You think I like this?" Leo continued. "Waking up with my head splitting open? Forgetting how I got home? Throwing up in places I don't remember being in?"
"Then stop," his mother said softly.
Leo shook his head. "I can't. I don't know how."
His parents exchanged a glance. A long, quiet one that said they'd had this conversation behind closed doors too many times.
"I'm not stupid," Leo said. "I know I'm screwing up. I know I'm not living right. But this-" he motioned around the house, the table, everything, "-this doesn't make me feel anything either."
"Then maybe we need to change something," his father said, calmly now.
Leo narrowed his eyes. "Like what? Rehab? Boarding school? Another therapist?"
"Maybe all of the above," his mother said. "Or maybe something more... permanent."
He snorted. "Like prison?"
"No," his father said. "Like responsibility."
Leo blinked. "What does that mean?"
"We'll talk about it soon," Mr. Reinhart replied. "But today... we're letting you think. You need to think about what kind of life you want."
Leo stood up, chair screeching back. "Right now, I just want silence."
He walked out of the dining room and back into the hallway, the ache in his head returning with full force.
He grabbed his keys, pulled on a hoodie, and left the house-ignoring his mother's voice calling after him.
---
The streets were quiet.
It was Sunday, the sky cloudy and pale. Leo walked with no destination, hands in his pockets, earbuds in. Music played loud enough to drown his thoughts, but not the shame.
He didn't know how he got here. He didn't know why he kept messing up. It wasn't for fun anymore. It wasn't rebellion.
It was routine.
Wake up. Drink. Pretend to laugh. Go out. Black out. Come home. Get yelled at. Sleep. Repeat.
He knew something was missing. But he didn't know what.
A future? A goal?
A reason to get up?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Raka:
> "U still alive?"
Leo replied:
> "Physically."
He kept walking, his mind somewhere else.
At some point, he sat on a bench by the river, staring at the water.
Everything was blurry-his thoughts, his past, even his reflection in the ripples. But one thing felt clear.
He couldn't keep doing this.
He just didn't know how to stop.
---
He came back home just before sunset. The house was quiet now. His parents were probably in the study, or in the kitchen pretending not to worry.
Leo went straight to his room, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed. The air was still. His thoughts were too loud.
Something had to change.
He just didn't know yet that it already was changing.
Tomorrow, his parents would drop a bomb he wasn't ready for.
But tonight, Leo Reinhart closed his eyes, not knowing this would be the last time he'd sleep as just a reckless boy.
Soon, he'd be a promised man-with a future that involved a stranger named Clara.