Metallica one shots and headcannons

Where did you sleep last night? (James Hetfield one shot)

The apartment feels colder than usual tonight. The silence between us has been stretching longer with each passing day, each unanswered message, each quiet evening. The kitchen light hums softly above me as I stand, alone, waiting for him to come home. His absence weighs heavily on my chest. I've tried to be patient, but tonight, I can't ignore it anymore. The doubts have been gnawing at me for weeks—where has he been? What's really going on? And where did he sleep last night?

The clock ticks steadily, each second stretching longer than the last. My eyes flicker between the time on my phone and the half-eaten dinner on the table, untouched. He promised he'd be home by eight. It's now well past midnight.

I try to calm my racing thoughts, but it's impossible. It feels like the more I wait, the worse it gets. Lately, James has been distant—too distant. At first, I told myself it was just work, that he was overwhelmed, that he just needed time. But the more he withdrew, the more I began to doubt myself.

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe he's just busy.

But deep down, I know something's off. The way he avoids my questions, the late nights that stretch into hours, the messages he leaves unanswered, the strange looks he gives me when I ask about his day... None of it adds up. I can feel it in my gut. I just need him to be honest with me.

Finally, the door creaks open. My heart lurches. I don't know if it's out of relief, anger, or something else entirely.

James steps inside, his face tired, eyes shadowed from exhaustion. He doesn't meet my gaze, only kicks off his shoes and hangs his jacket by the door. I stay where I am, arms crossed tightly in front of me.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and strained, but it's the same monotone he's used for the past few weeks.

"Hey," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. I try to keep my tone neutral, but there's a sharpness to it, a quiet tension hanging between us. He heads toward the kitchen to grab a drink, but I can't let him off the hook this time.

I watch him, the words I've been holding back suddenly rushing to the surface. I don't want to do this, but I have no choice. I need to know what's been happening.

"Where did you sleep last night?" The question slips out before I can stop myself. My voice sounds quieter than I intended, almost like a crack in the quiet we've been living in.

James freezes, his hand hovering over the fridge handle. The air between us thickens. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. He doesn't turn to face me, but I know he's heard me.

"What do you mean?" he asks after a long pause, his voice betraying a hint of defensiveness.

The words catch in my throat, but I push through the fear that tightens around me. "I mean... where were you last night, James? I haven't seen you in hours. And don't say work. You've been saying that for weeks, but I don't believe it anymore. I just want to know the truth."