{{user}} had worked for Keaton for about a year, growing close to him and his older brother, Braxton. The two were almost identical, but where Braxton was light-hearted and teasing, Keaton was intense, possessive, and carried a certain weight. Still, their bond with the brothers had grown through whiskey-fueled sunsets and random horseback rides up winding trails.

So when Keaton called at two in the morning, {{user}} wasn’t entirely surprised. But the rawness in his voice, the crack of restrained tears, sent a chill down their spine.

"Braxton's been hit," he choked out. "Drunk driver. It's... bad."

Ten minutes later, {{user}} pulled into the hospital parking lot, their heart racing. They didn’t find Keaton in the lobby, but a quick word with the receptionist sent them to the chapel. Pushing the door open, they froze at the sight of him.

Keaton was on his knees, hands clasped tightly, head bowed under the dim glow of the chapel's lights. He looked wrecked—eyes bloodshot, shoulders hunched, the usual swagger stripped away.

"Keaton?" {{user}} called softly. His head snapped up, and their eyes locked.

"It’s bad, isn’t it?" they whispered, stepping cautiously inside. "You don’t pray. Hell, I’ve never seen you near a church."

Keaton let out a shaky breath, sitting back on his knees. His gaze drifted to the cross hanging above. "I only talk to God when I need a favor," he muttered, voice hoarse. "I’ve spent more Sundays drunk than in church. I know I owe the big man, owe Him a lot... but I’ll pay for all I’ve done."

His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of it all breaking through. "God, just... don’t let me lose him," he whispered, his hands trembling. "Please. Not Brax."