#drunk pic

Unsaved Number

Part 2

Jack O’connell!Reader

You went clubbing the night before, got a little to drunk. An older guy you vaguely remember kept flirting and asking for your number. Maybe too much to drink or just wanted to get on with dancing you gave it to him.

Your head is pounding like someone decided to set up a full drum kit right behind your eyes and go to town. The room is too bright offensively, personally bright and your mouth tastes like regret, cheap vodka, and something that might have been a kebab. The memories from last night are drifting back in blurry, useless snapshots, like a slideshow run by someone who hates you. Club lights strobing hot and purple. Sweaty bodies pressing in from every side. Laughing way too loud with your mates over music you could feel in your chest. Dancing like a complete and total idiot and not caring even a little bit.

At some point there was a shot that was definitely someone's bad idea. At some point someone said let's stay for one more. Classic.

You groan a long, suffering soundand reach blindly for your phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking it off before your fingers close around it. You squint at the screen, holding it at arm's length like it's attacked you before. 11:47 a.m. Three missed calls from the friend you went to the club with last night. A voice note from someone in the group chat titled, ominously, "you need to see this."

And a text from an unsaved number

Unknown: morning gorgeous. hope the hangover isn’t kicking your arse too hard after last night 😂 you were proper buzzing when i left

You stare at it, brain still buffering. Who the hell…?

You: who is this?

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Unknown: jack. the “old guy” who wouldn’t leave you alone at the bar 😉 told you my name like three times love. you really don’t remember any of it?

A faint flash comes back, cutting through the fog. Tall bloke, broad-shouldered, with that kind of light brown hair that falls just a little too long and somehow looks better for it. The stubble sitting easy on his jaw not groomed, not neglected, just there, like he'd simply never felt the need to think too hard about it. And the accent thick Midlands, warm and unhurried, somehow cutting clean through the bass and the crowd noise like it had no business doing. Older. Mid-thirties, maybe. Definitely not your usual type.

Your usual type is early-twenties chaos. Someone whose hair is a disaster because they forgot to brush it, not because it falls that way naturally. Someone whose life is just as much of a work-in-progress as yours. This bloke had looked like he owned things. Paid bills on time. Had a favourite pub he'd been going to for ten years and knew everyone's name.

He'd been leaning against the bar like he'd been put there specifically to be annoying about it all easy posture and pale eyes and that slow smile, the kind that said I know exactly what I'm doing and so do you. Asked for your number while you'd been half a drink deep and very much trying to get back to your friends.

You'd been iffy as hell. Older guys weren't your scene. Too settled. Too sure of themselves in that quiet way that somehow took up more space than loudness ever could.

But he'd been annoyingly charming in this low-effort, unbothered way that somehow made it worse, and you'd had places to be dancing to do, drinks to finish, mates to be an idiot with and he was just there, warm and persistent and faintly amused by you. So you'd punched in the digits. Half the alcohol loosening your better judgment, half just wanting to get back to your night without turning it into a whole thing.

You hadn't thought much of it after that.

You: vaguely. i remember some guy flirting pretty hard and me giving him my number just to get him off my back lol. that was you?

Jack: ouch. straight for the ego 😂 yeah that was me. you were laughing at my shit jokes though, so i thought i was in with a chance. you really don’t remember telling me you liked my accent and that i had “nice arms for an old man”?

Your face heats up. Jesus. You said that?

You: oh my god. i was drunk

Jack: you were having fun. proper lively. cute as hell when you get cheeky. sent you a couple selfies last night but i reckon they went straight to the black hole of drunk you. want me to resend?

Jack: Sorry about the first pic i sent last night love i was proper pissed myself so it came out blurry as hell. made one of the lads take the second one when i could actually hold the phone straight. wanna see the evidence?

Before you can answer, two photos pop up.

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Jack: there. proof i’m not some random creep. you said i could text you today. so here i am. no pressure darlin, just wanted to make sure you got home safe and see if that smile’s still as dangerous in daylight.

You bite your lip, scrolling back through the photos. He is stupidly attractive. And the way he texts easy, teasing, not pushy is doing things to your stomach that have nothing to do with the hangover.

You: i remember now. you were persistent as hell

Jack: guilty. but you gave me the number, so part of you must’ve wanted me to use it. or was that just the vodka talking?

You hesitate, thumbs hovering. Then you type before you can talk yourself out of it.

You: maybe a bit of both. you’re not what i usually go for

Jack: good. i like being the exception. let me take you for a proper drink sometime one where you can actually remember my name afterwards 😉 no pressure. just say the word, love.

You stare at the screen, cheeks burning, a stupid little smile creeping onto your face despite the headache. He’s older. He’s trouble. And yet…

You: …maybe. give me a day to recover first, old man

Jack: haha there she is. take all the time you need gorgeous. i’ll be here when you’re ready.

You drop your phone on the pillow and bury your burning face in your hands, heart doing stupid flips.

Fuck. He’s good.

also my head hurts