the house was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint clink of an empty bottle as carl set it down on the floor beside him. he was slouched on the couch, his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling like it held some kind of answer. it didn’t, of course. nothing did.

he wasn’t even sure how many drinks it had been. four? six? more? it didn’t matter. it was just enough to blur the edges of the ache in his chest, the one that had been there all day, gnawing at him.

it was one of those days—one where everything felt too heavy to carry. the memories, the losses, the weight of surviving when so many others hadn’t. he’d been doing better lately, or at least that’s what he told himself. but the truth was, sometimes it came back like this, out of nowhere, pulling him under before he could stop it.

he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. the sheriff’s hat was tossed on the coffee table, abandoned, like he couldn’t bear to put it on tonight. he hated feeling like this—weak, broken. but no matter how hard he tried to outrun it, the grief always caught up eventually.

the sound of the door opening barely registered at first. it wasn’t until he heard footsteps that he sat up, blinking slowly. his vision swayed, the room tilting slightly as he tried to focus.

then he saw you.

“hi,” he mumbled, his voice slurred, barely above a whisper. a faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eye. “didn’t… didn’t think you’d come.”

his words hung in the air, heavy and fragile all at once. his gaze dropped to his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. part of him wanted to explain, to tell you why he was like this tonight. but the other part—the bigger part—was too tired to even try.

so he just sat there, staring at the floor, waiting for whatever came next.