Hazel's POV
The familiar scent of expensive whiskey hit me before Alistair even spoke. His eyes were bloodshot, his usually pristine appearance disheveled. He'd been drinking—heavily.
"You're drunk," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
Alistair leaned against my doorframe with false casualness. "Not drunk enough to forget how stubborn you are."
I fumbled with my keys, weighing my options. "It's late. Go home, Alistair."
"Not until we talk." He blocked my path to the door.
I remembered the last time he'd shown up drunk. That night had ended with a broken vase and a cut on my arm from the shattered glass he'd knocked over in his rage. I wasn't eager for a repeat performance.
"Last time you were drunk around me, I needed four stitches," I reminded him coldly. "Do you really want to risk that again?"
His face softened immediately. "You still care about what happens to me."
