You let yourself into the room, the door clicking softly behind you. Chuck was sprawled on the couch, still in his suit but with the tie loosened and his shirt half unbuttoned. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a muted glow from the bedside lamp.

He didn’t bother looking up.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, his voice flat, almost emotionless. There was an empty bottle of whiskey on the table, but for once, no glass in his hand. “What’s the plan this time? Talk me out of whatever mess I’m in?”

You took a few steps toward him, and he finally glanced your way, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and knowing him, he probably hadn’t.

“Don’t waste your time,” he muttered, sinking further into the couch. “I’m not someone you can fix.” He closed his eyes briefly, like he was trying to shut out the world. “Not anymore.”