Kellen held him there for another moment, then released him. The man stumbled backward, surprise still evident on his face.
"That’s what I thought," Kellen said, settling back into the booth as if nothing had happened.
The drunk looked like he was considering saying something else, then thought better of it and retreated quickly to the far end of the bar. Around us, the other patrons had gone very quiet, all of them suddenly finding their drinks fascinating.
I stared at Kellen in shock. "Jesus Christ."
"Finish your drink, it’s expensive as hell," he said calmly, almost with a yawn. "About time we go, anyway."
The bourbon was hitting me hard now, making the room spin slightly. I drained my glass and tried to stand, only to discover that my legs weren't quite working the way they should.
"Whoa," I said, grabbing the table for support.
Kellen was beside me immediately, his arm steady under mine. "Come on, lightweight. Let's get you home."
The walk to his truck was a struggle. The alcohol seemed to hit me all at once, and my legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Kellen half-carried me across the parking lot, his strength surprising given his build.
"Waaait," I mumbled as Kellen helped me toward his truck, my words slurring together. "Soph … Sop... she didn't really double-schedule me, did she?"
Kellen didn't answer. He just kept steering me forward.
"She set this up," I continued, the pieces clicking together in my drunk brain. "She fucking … fucking … she knew you were gonna..."
"Get in, Dalton."
"She was worried about me?" The realization hit me like another shot of bourbon. "Jesus, Kellen, how bad have I been?"
"Bad enough," he said quietly, helping me into the passenger seat. "Bad enough that people who care about you started making plans."
The drive back to my apartment passed in a dizzying blur of streetlights and gentle motion. I must have dozed, becausethe next thing I knew, Kellen was helping me out of his pickup and toward my building.
"Keys," he said.
I fumbled in my pockets, eventually producing them with the kind of concentration that simple tasks required when you were this drunk. Kellen took them and unlocked the door, then helped me up the stairs to my apartment.
"Jesus, Dalton," he muttered as I stumbled on the landing. "I'm getting too old for this bullshit."
Inside my apartment, he guided me to my bedroom and helped me sit on the edge of the bed.
"Think you can manage from here?" he asked.
I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure. "Thanks, Kellen. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet," he said. "Thank me when you fix what's broken."
He started to leave, then paused at the bedroom door. "I'm going to sleep on your couch tonight. Make sure you don't choke on your own vomit or something equally stupid."
"You don't have to — "
"Yeah, I do." He was already walking toward the living room. "Get some sleep, Jimmy. Tomorrow you start figuring out how to get your life back."
I lay back on the bed, still fully clothed, and closed my eyes. The room was spinning, but for the first time in weeks, the chaos felt manageable. Kellen had given me something I didn't even know I needed: permission to be human. Permission to fail without being destroyed by it.
And most importantly, permission to fight for the things that mattered, even when I wasn't sure I deserved them.
I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. Sunlight was streaming through mybedroom window with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness that seemed designed to mock the hungover. My mouth tasted like something had died in it, and my head was pounding with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
But underneath the physical misery, I felt something I hadn't experienced in weeks: clarity.
