The kitchen was dark, except for the faint glow of the cigarette in his hand. Smoke coiled around him, mixing with the stale scent of whiskey from the untouched glass on the table. Asher sat hunched over, his elbows digging into the scarred wood, staring blankly at the floor.

The house was too quiet, but he could hear the soft rhythm of her breathing in the other room. It was the only thing that kept him anchored, kept him from pouring another drink.

He took a slow drag, the burn in his chest dull compared to everything else. She deserved better than this—better than him. But no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that, he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.