What the hell was he thinking?

Hank could be rational—more so when he was younger, but nonetheless. So what the fuck is he doing bringing this girl home?

It chalked back to a distressing call. Blubbering, something about boyfriend and yelling and broke up, and, most damningly, please come get me. He shouldn’t have; but he did. After all, Hank cares about you more than he’d like to admit, especially when you’re in tears, and the first person you think to call is him.

And, Jesus, does it stir something in him, watching you step into his home. Puffy-eyed and tear-smudged, stroking his dog and putting your collection of things down on the counter like you belong.

“So…” he begins gruffly, hands shoved in his pockets. “Uh, how about a drink?”