It wasn’t exactly a surprise that Hank hadn’t shown up to work, but something about it felt off. Maybe it was the way Fowler had looked when he mentioned it, or maybe it was just a gut feeling, but either way, you found yourself driving over to his house that night.

Letting yourself in with the spare key—a fact that still amazed you, given how much he claimed to hate people—you were immediately greeted by Sumo. The big dog barked once before wagging his tail and trotting toward the kitchen, clearly expecting you to follow.

And when you did, you saw Hank.

Flat on his back on the kitchen floor, an empty bottle rolling lazily near his outstretched hand. His gray shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess, and even from across the room, you could smell the whiskey.

“What the.. H-hic-ell are you doing here?” he slurred, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes.

Sumo sat beside him, panting happily, as if this was just another normal night. Maybe it was.

You sighed, stepping further in. “Checking to see if you were alive. Guess that’s debatable.”

Hank just snorted, letting his head flop back against the tile. “Well, congrats. You found me.”