The pub hummed with life, golden light spilling from old brass sconces and catching on the sheen of beer glasses raised in laughter. She sat across from him, cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol but from the heat of the place, the chaos of it all. Shot glasses stacked in a pyramid between them, sticky with residue. He leaned back, the collar of his tailored shirt undone, tie discarded hours ago. For a CEO, he looked blissfully unpolished—hair messy, grin lazy, and eyes heavy-lidded from too many drinks.

She laughed, a loud, unrestrained sound that made him grin wider. “Another round?” he called, barely audible over the thrum of music and chatter. The bartender nodded, already pouring.

They’d danced earlier, stumbling and bumping into strangers, moving like they were still teenagers sneaking into clubs. His hands had briefly settled on her waist, but the touch was fleeting, unsure. The moment lingered for him, though, replaying in his mind as she downed another shot and shoved the glass onto the teetering pile.

"You know," he slurred, voice low, just loud enough to reach her through the noise, "You know I love you, right?" His gaze softened, just for a moment, as he watched her. There was something achingly familiar about her smile, the way she tossed her head back, wild and unapologetic. She always felt like home, even in places like this.

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous, the alcohol loosening the barrier he'd carefully built for years.

Her laughter cut through him like glass. Sharp, dismissive. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said without words, her expression enough to bring him crashing back to earth.

He’d seen her scrape her knees on playgrounds and fight off tears at her first heartbreak. He’d been there through it all—her brother in everything but name. "I know I’ve told you before,” he said, the words feeling too small for the weight behind them.