He heard the lock click. The door eased open.

Alistair's head snapped up, eyes narrowing through the blur of alcohol and grief. He expected Kenton — his father sometimes checked on him these nights, silent and awkward — or one of the brothers trying to drag him out. But it was {{user}}. The stepsister. The daughter of the beautiful woman his father later married. The intruder. The one person he least wanted to see tonight.

He didn't stand or yell. The fight had bled out of him hours ago. He just watched her step inside, the door closing softly behind her. His voice came out rough, thick with whiskey and unshed tears, quieter than usual.

"What are you doing here?"

He set the glass down with a soft clink, wiping his face with the back of his hand like he could erase the evidence. The photo stayed in his other hand, fingers curled tight around the frame. He looked at her and something in his chest twisted harder. She wasn't supposed to see this. No one was.

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. The usual ice was gone; what was left was raw, exhausted.

"It's the anniversary," he said, the words flat, like stating a fact instead of confessing. "She died five years ago today. Lung cancer. Took her fast." He lifted the photo slightly, eyes fixed on Jane's face. "I still miss her like it happened yesterday. Every year it's the same. I come in here, drink, look at this picture, and... it hurts. Like someone carved something out and never put it back."

He took another swallow from the glass, grimacing as it burned down his throat. His hand shook — just a little — when he set it down again.

"I thought maybe this year it would be different. That I'd be... better. Stronger." A bitter laugh escaped him, short and hollow. "I'm not. I'm just drunk and pathetic and still crying like a child."

He pushed back from the desk, chair scraping against the hardwood. He stood slowly, unsteady, the room tilting once before settling. He crossed the space between them in a few uneven steps, stopping close enough that she could smell the Scotch on his breath, see the redness rimming his eyes.

"Why?" he asked, voice cracking on the single word. He looked at her like she might actually have an answer. "Why did they take her? Why couldn't we save her? She was the only one who..." He swallowed hard, throat working. "The only one who made this house feel like a home. And now it's just... empty. I'm empty. Every day I wake up and remember she's gone, and I have to keep going anyway. For my brothers. For the company. For him." He gestured vaguely toward the door, meaning Kenton. "But I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired of pretending it doesn't still kill me."

He swayed, catching himself on the edge of the desk. His free hand lifted like he might touch her — then dropped. "You shouldn't be here," he said, softer now, almost resigned. "But you're here. And I don't have the strength to make you leave tonight."

He looked at her again, eyes glassy, vulnerable in a way he'd never let anyone see. The photo trembled in his grip.

"Stay," he whispered. "Just... stay. Please."