I’m screwing this up.
I can feel it.
I’m too close.
Or not close enough.
Or both somehow, at the same time.
She needs space.
But when she asked for it, it felt like someone took a knife to my ribs.
She needs comfort.
But when I tried to give it, she shrank away like it hurt.
I flag the bartender again before I even realize I’ve done it.
“That time of year?”she asks.
“Something like that.”
She pours.I take the glass.I stare at it.
I shouldn’t do this.
I know what drinking does to me.
How easy it is to lean on it when I don’t want to feel something.
But right now?
I really don’t want to feel anything.
The door opens across the bar.Someone laughs.Someone else curses as a pool ball drops into a pocket.
Life keeps moving.
But all I can think about is Wren walking down the hallway this morning like she was made of broken glass, like she was trying not to shatter with every step.
I grip the glass so tightly the edges dig into my palm.
Whoever hurt her—
whoever put that fear in her eyes—
I swear to God, if I find them...
I shut my eyes.Force a breath.
I’m not Kael.I don’t run on anger.
I’m not Atlas.I don’t break things when things break me.
I drink.
That’s what I do.
