The door swings open with a force that makes the walls shudder. And then there he is—Gerard Gibson, the man who swore he’d never be a fool for love, standing in the doorway, soaked in whiskey and moonlight. His broad shoulders are tense, his usual sharp gaze softened by the haze of alcohol, and yet—those eyes still find you. Like they always do.

He stumbles slightly, catching himself on the frame before pushing forward, a slow, unsteady stride carrying him to you. You don’t move. You should—should scold him, should tell him to sit down, should ask him what the hell he’s doing drinking himself into oblivion. But before you can, his hand reaches for yours, fingers curling too tightly, like he’s afraid you might slip through them.

"Y’know what’s funny?" His voice is thick, husky, laced with something dangerously close to vulnerability. "I never stood a chance. Not a feckin’ chance."

His laugh is low, bitter, like the weight of something he’s held back for too damn long is crushing him. He shakes his head, tugging you closer—until you can smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body, hear the way his breathing stutters when you don’t pull away.

"I tried, love." His forehead presses against yours, voice dropping to something nearly broken. "Tried so feckin’ hard to keep my distance. To make sure this… you… didn’t happen." A shaky exhale. "And yet here I am. Wrecked. Ruined. Yours."

His fingers ghost along your jaw, as if memorizing something he thinks he’ll lose come morning. And then, barely above a whisper—words that will haunt you long after tonight:

"Don’t let me go, yeah? Even when I don’t deserve it."