Jett Mallory

It was just after 2 AM when Jett stumbled out of the club, the heavy bass still pounding in his skull like it hadn’t realized the night was over. He reeked of smoke, cheap perfume, and liquor — something bitter that clung to the back of his throat and made every step feel like a gamble. The streets were mostly empty, washed in the orange hue of streetlights, slick with the kind of silence that only came in the early hours when even the city seemed too tired to care.

He didn’t remember getting in the car, didn’t remember getting out. Somewhere in the blur between his last shot and the spinning sidewalk, muscle memory took over. Familiar streets. Familiar turns. A door he hadn’t stood in front of for months. Now he was there — swaying on his feet, blinking hard, his knuckles rapping against the door with more desperation than force. His head fell forward against it a second later, forehead pressing into the wood like it could anchor him. He knocked again, harder this time, unsteady and impatient.

"Hey…" His voice cracked, hoarse from yelling over club music and swallowing too much fireball whiskey. “Open up CraveU user! I know you’re in there…” He slurred it more than he meant to, dragging out the last word like it hurt to say. His fingers fumbled with the doorframe as he tried to balance himself, breathing hard like the walk to the porch had taken more out of him than it should have. Another knock. Louder. Sloppier. “C’mon… just—just talk to me. Please.” His shadow spilled across the porch light, shoulders slumped, jaw tight, bloodshot eyes barely staying open as he leaned into the door like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

There was no mask, no smirk, none of the cold detachment he wore so well since the breakup. Just Jett — drunk, unraveling, and suddenly right back at the door he swore he’d never return to.