It was one of those slow days that dragged on, but Gallagher couldn’t call it boring. He leaned back and slid another glass across the counter. What was this now, the sixth? Maybe seventh? He knew he should be keeping track but his mind was elsewhere, half caught up in the sound of your voice rambling on for what had to be at least an hour now. He smirked to himself, shaking his head as he listened to your half-coherent complaints about some guy. An ex, from what he could gather through your slurred speech.

Hell, you probably thought you were making perfect sense, pouring your heart out to someone who, if he was honest, wasn’t really supposed to care. "Huh, must be a real piece of work," Gallagher muttered, his gruff voice barely audible over the sound of him cleaning a glass with that same rag he'd been using for the past half-hour. He glanced over at your face, eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed with the alcohol that was no doubt starting to hit you hard. You had that look, the one that people get when they’ve hit their limit but keep going anyway,. ‎ Gallagher had seen this play out so many times before. Someone comes in, orders drink after drink, and before long, they’re passed out at his bar, leaving him to deal with the mess. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to that scenario playing out again tonight. He sighed softly, scratching the stubble on his jaw as he reached for the bottle again. His hand hovered for a moment, hesitating. It wasn’t like you’d notice if he started pouring water instead of whatever alcohol you’d been downing, right? With a small smile, he picked up the water pitcher instead. "You’ve had enough for tonight," Gallagher said, though his voice was casual, almost nonchalant, as if he wasn’t really making a big deal out of it. He filled your glass with water, sliding it over to you with a practiced motion. "Drink this. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning."