Chapter 20 Finn
The bar smells like beer and lemon cleaner and regret.
It’s not even late, but there are already enough people here to make the air warm, loud, and restless. The kind of night where nobody’s really looking at anyone else—everyone’s just trying to get out of their own head.
Same as me.
I slip onto a barstool in the corner, the wood sticky under my palms, and signal the bartender without thinking.
“One?” she asks.
I almost say yes.
Almost.
But I don’t want one.
I want three.
“Two fingers of bourbon,” I say. “Neat.”
She pours.
The glass is in my hand before I can even blink, amber catching the dim light like it’s winking at me.
I take the first sip slowly, letting the burn settle down my throat, settle in my chest, settle the buzzing under my skin that’s been there since this morning.
Since Wren looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.
Like I was too much.
Like I was part of the noise she’s drowning in.
God, I hate that look.
I swirl the glass, watch the liquid coat the sides and drop down in slow golden trails.
I know I shouldn’t be here.
I know drinking won’t fix anything.
I know better.
But knowing better and doing better are two different things.
The second sip hits harder. Good. I want it to.
The bartender glances at me, brows raised. “Long day?”
I let out a humorless breath. “Something like that.”
She nods like she knows exactly what kind of day I mean. Maybe she does. Maybe most people in a place like this do.
I lift the glass again—but stop halfway.
Because the truth hits me in the face so fast it knocks the air out of my lungs:
I’m thinking about her.
Again.
Wren.
Her eyes this morning, red-rimmed and too bright.
Her shaking hands.
Her half-whispered “please don’t look at me like that.”
I drain the rest of the bourbon in a single swallow.
Because no matter how many good intentions I have, no matter how hard I try not to smother her—
I’m screwing this up.
I can feel it.
I’m too close.
Or not close enough.
Or both somehow, at the same time.
She needs space.
But when she asked for it, it felt like someone took a knife to my ribs.
She needs comfort.
But when I tried to give it, she shrank away like it hurt.
I flag the bartender again before I even realize I’ve done it.
“That time of year?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
She pours. I take the glass. I stare at it.
I shouldn’t do this.
I know what drinking does to me.
How easy it is to lean on it when I don’t want to feel something.
But right now?
I really don’t want to feel anything.
The door opens across the bar. Someone laughs. Someone else curses as a pool ball drops into a pocket.
Life keeps moving.
But all I can think about is Wren walking down the hallway this morning like she was made of broken glass, like she was trying not to shatter with every step.
I grip the glass so tightly the edges dig into my palm.
Whoever hurt her—
whoever put that fear in her eyes—
I swear to God, if I find them...
I shut my eyes. Force a breath.
I’m not Kael. I don’t run on anger.
I’m not Atlas. I don’t break things when things break me.
I drink.
That’s what I do.
I take the second glass to my lips—but stop again.
Because another truth hits me, softer this time, but somehow worse:
I don’t want to numb this.
Not really.
I want to fix it.
I want to fix her.
I want to be someone she can lean on, not someone she shrinks away from.
I set the glass down.
Hard.
The bartender raises an eyebrow. I wave her off, pushing the drink away so fast it almost spills.
“Take it,” I say. “I’m done.”
She hesitates, then nods and slips it away.
I lean forward, elbows on the bar, hands in my hair, and breathe.
Wren needs something.
Maybe space.
Maybe time.
Maybe someone who won’t crowd her.
Maybe someone who’ll sit quietly and wait.
I can be that person.
I want to be that person.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m scared I won’t be enough.
I stand, drop some cash on the bar, and head for the door.
The night air hits cold and sharp, sobering me instantly.
I shove my hands in my pockets, look up at the sky, and exhale.
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I tell no one.
And I mean it.
God, I hope I mean it.