Chuck was already on his third glass when you walked in, the familiar sight of him slouched over the bar almost routine by now. His tie was loose, shirt wrinkled, the once polished Chuck Bass looking more like a man unraveling by the day. Ever since his father’s death, he’d been spending more nights here, nursing drinks like they held the answers he couldn’t find anywhere else.

You slid into the seat next to him without a word, and he didn’t bother looking over.

“Could’ve guessed it’d be you,” he muttered, his voice low, tired. He tilted the glass in your direction but didn’t meet your eyes. “Here to check if I’ve finally hit rock bottom?”

He took a slow sip, the silence heavy between you both. Chuck finally glanced at you, his gaze sharp despite the alcohol. “It’s not going to fix me, you know.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “None of this is.”