Gibbs is too old for this. Too old for the pounding bass, the flashing lights, the press of bodies moving without purpose. It’s all just noise. Distraction.

He doesn't understand how anyone can flirt, mingle, or chat in these conditions. Three marriages down, and he’s long since stopped believing in romance—at least, the kind that lasts. Love, like everything else, has a way of slipping through your fingers when you’re not looking.

His sharp blue eyes drop to the half-empty glass in his hand. He swirls the whiskey and watches the amber liquid catch the light before knocking it back in one smooth motion. If he’s stuck here, he might as well let the burn keep him company.