It was a lovely night, which somehow made it worse. You kept drinking anyway, determined to get drunk enough to forget that you’d been stood up on the same damn day, no less.

The bar was warm, dim, and thankfully half-empty. You were swirling what was left in your glass when someone slid onto the stool beside you. A tall man. Broad shoulders. Calm presence.

“Whiskey, neat,” he told the bartender. Then he nodded toward your empty glass. “And another for her. My treat.” You didn’t even look at him. “Go away… I don’t have any mood right now,” you muttered, the words coming out a little slurry, a little defeated.

The man let out a soft chuckle, low, warm, unbothered. “Yeah,” he said, “I picked up on that.”

You finally glanced over. Brett Richards, the new Battalion Chief. Serious eyes. Weathered expression. But he wasn’t judging you, just… being there.

“Drink’s still paid for,” he added, lifting his own glass. “After that, I’ll leave you alone.” He didn’t crowd you, didn’t push, just sat steady beside you like someone who knew exactly what a bad night looked like. And somehow… that made the night feel a little less heavy.