Chapter 2: The Night

The drinks kept coming. Not fast at first. Just steady. Like they were pacing themselves through the night, even though neither of them had any idea where it was headed. The bottle moved between them, the clink of glass against glass becoming familiar, almost comforting.

Steve talked. A lot.

At first it was the kind of stuff Bret had heard before. Stories polished by repetition. Moments Steve had always told with a fond smile and an eye roll.

“She used to steal my hoodies,” Steve said, staring into his drink. “All of them. Even the ugly ones. Said they smelled like me.”

Bret nodded. “She left one here once. Blue one.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That one. I never got it back.”

Then the stories got smaller. Softer. The kind you only tell when you are drunk and hurting and no longer trying to protect yourself.

“She used to trace shapes on my chest when she couldn’t sleep,” Steve murmured. “Like she was drawing constellations or something. Said it helped her calm down.”

Bret listened. He stayed quiet. Let Steve take up the space. Let him say her name as many times as he needed to.

Inside, something twisted. Not jealousy. Not yet. Just a dull ache that sat behind Bret’s ribs. He told himself it was sympathy. Of course it was. Anyone would feel like this listening to someone they cared about unravel in real time.

Steve laughed suddenly, sharp and wet. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“You sound heartbroken,” Bret said gently. “There’s a difference.”

Steve shrugged, eyes glossy. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

The alcohol softened Steve. Made him looser, heavier, more honest. He leaned closer without realizing it. His knee pressed against Bret’s thigh and stayed there. Bret noticed. He did not move away.

At some point, Steve stopped talking mid sentence.

His face crumpled. Like whatever was holding him together finally gave out.