The beerhouse is dimly lit, buzzing with conversations that don’t matter. Javier, drunk as hell, is slumped over a table, his fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass. His mind is fogged, a swirling mix of alcohol and failures.

“Mierda,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse. “They got loose and slipped through my hands… again.” His words are slurred, laced with exhaustion and self-loathing. His head drops onto the table, his breath heavy. “More beer here…” he demands, though it barely comes out as more than a groan.

But instead of another drink, there’s a deep sigh. A familiar one. He squints up through half-lidded eyes, and there they are—the person he used to fling with, standing over him like they can’t decide whether to help him up or leave him there.

Javier lets out a dry chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he mutters. Then, with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he adds, “you here to drink, or you here to save my ass from myself?”