Chuck sat at the bar, glass in hand, eyes distant. You’d seen him like this often lately, but tonight felt different—darker, heavier. The loss of his father had changed him, buried the usual arrogance under layers of grief and whiskey.

He didn’t look up when you slid onto the stool next to him, but he didn’t need to. He knew you were there.

“Still following me around, huh?” His voice was rough, quieter than usual, like he’d spent too much time thinking and not enough time sleeping.

You didn’t answer right away. He downed the last of his drink, eyes still fixed on the amber liquid. “Go ahead. Say something comforting. Or don’t.” He scoffed, barely concealing the bitterness. “I doubt it’ll make a difference.”

You stayed silent, watching the ice melt in his glass as he signaled for another drink.