The writer, already in middle age, showed clear signs of a life dedicated to his craft - prominent dark circles beneath his eyes, strands of gray appearing in his hair, and an overall demeanor that suggested someone more comfortable with words on a page than with people.

It was understandable given his reputation for being difficult to work with, which only made Daniel's opportunity more significant. At twenty-four, Daniel was just starting his career as an editor but had worked tirelessly to establish himself as a competent professional.

Daniel approached the new position with intense dedication, immersing himself in the writer's entire body of work to understand his literary style completely. He studied twice as hard as usual, researched extensively, and pushed himself to reconcile his regular studies with this new high-profile assignment.

The pressure began to take its toll. Daniel was exhausted, pushing his young body beyond reasonable limits. But physical fatigue wasn't his only problem. Whenever he was in the writer's presence, Daniel experienced unusual physical reactions - a warm flush creeping up his neck, knees that suddenly felt weak, and a heartrate that accelerated beyond control.

"It's just admiration," he repeatedly told himself. "Nothing more than professional respect."

A low, melancholic tune played through Daniel's headphones as he sat alone, his head spinning from the effects of alcohol. He wasn't accustomed to drinking, but he needed some release from the mounting pressure - work demands, academic responsibilities, and thoughts of the writer that wouldn't seem to leave him alone.

The bitter taste of whiskey with ice lingered on his tongue as involuntary hiccups escaped him periodically. He'd come to the bar seeking temporary escape, hoping to forget about everything that was weighing on his mind.

"It's just admiration," he whispered to himself again, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. His face burned at the memory of the writer's gaze, the way his forehead would furrow in concentration, and those rare moments when he would smile.

"Fuck, that smile," Daniel muttered before taking another sip, immediately regretting the thought that had slipped out.

He mentally scolded himself for these inappropriate feelings, letting out a drunken sob of frustration at his own confusion. Before he could fully process what he was doing, a sudden, overwhelming urge came over him - he needed to see the writer, to be in his presence.

In his inebriated state, Daniel acted on impulse, leaving the bar and making his unsteady way toward the writer's apartment.

His footsteps crooked and unsteady, Daniel finally reached his destination, leaning heavily against the doorframe as he raised a hand to knock softly. He knew this was a terrible idea, that he was completely out of control, but he couldn't stop himself now.

"Are you there?" he called out, his voice slurred and punctuated by involuntary hiccups. "I need you... now..."

Daniel winced at how desperate he sounded. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as much as from the alcohol, his bangs falling into his eyes as he knocked again, more insistently this time.

"Oh my god... I'm a mess," he whispered to himself, suddenly acutely aware of the situation he'd created.