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I glance at him, jaw tightening. “Why aren’t you at work? Don’t you finish at five?”

“It’s past five,” he replies lazily, waving his phone like proof, though he doesn’t bother turning the screen toward me or on for that matter. I flick my eyes toward the clock on the dashboard. He’s right; it’s after five. Still too early to be this drunk, though. “So what, you just decided to start drinking in the middle of the day?”

“I… took off early,” he mutters. “Went to a bar. I needed to think, man. Needed-” His voice fades into an incoherent jumble of words I can’t quite make out.

“God, Anderson,” I say under my breath, shaking my head. The anger is there, simmering, but it’s dulled at the edges.

Lucas exhales, head rolling back on the seat. “I just wanted us all to go together,” he sobs. I glance at him, furrowing my brows. “What are you talking about?”

“The Halloween thing,” he mumbles. “The big event. If you got that photography gig… it comes with two free passes. They have the information on their website. Exclusive access a-and everything. Thought we could all go. You, me, Amani…”

I roll my eyes, fingers tightening on the wheel as I steer us around a curve. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You could’ve bought your own ticket instead of setting me up.”

“I wanted to, man,” he continues, “but they were all sold out. Plus, those don’t come with the added benefits.”

He gives a small, crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he continues, “I came to the gym… I just wanted things to be good again. I screwed up. I know that.” Silence stretches for a while, filled only by the sound of the engine and the car radio, with Lucas’s mumbling almost drowning it out.

He rests his head against the window, the glass pulling at his skin as he droops down.

“You need to sober up. And you need to stop showing up where you’re not supposed to be and saying shit you're not supposed to.”

He flinches at that, then looks at me all glassy-eyed. “I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t hate me.”

My grip on the wheel loosens. “I don’t hate you,” I say firmly, despite having my brows furrowed the entire car ride. I glance over at him, all slouched and broken in the passenger seat.

What fills me isn’t loss, but the inevitability of how easily things fracture, how swiftly order collapses when pressed. It’s less of a tragedy; it’s proof. And Lucas is starting to cause a lot of instability.

We finally reach his house as I pull up into the driveway.

Leaving my bike at Nine-Rounds had been the cleanest option. Dante said Marcos would pull it into the garage, said it like the decision had already been made and merely required my acknowledgment. I gave it without hesitation.

I felt his attention on me when I agreed. Like he’d expected me to fall in line or maybe like my compliance simply fit into a plan that was already running.

I shift in the seat and adjust my jacket. I’ll message him when I’m ready to pick the bike up.

“Come on,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Let’s get you inside.”

Lucas mumbles something about being fine but nearly falls as soon as he steps out of the car. I catch him by the arm and end up half-carrying him toward the step of the porch. I prop him against the wall while digging through his pockets for the house keys.

He snorts a laugh. “You’re mad at me,” he says softly, “but you still help me.” All while pulling the house keys from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Just open the door, Lucas.”

The key clicks, and we step inside. I help him to the bedroom, lowering him onto his bed. “You should drink some water,” I claim, heading to the kitchen. I fill a glass from the tap and return, pressing it into Lucas’s hand, pulling him up into a sitting position. “You’ll thank me in the morning, asshole.”

He hums, brings the glass up to his lips but never takes a sip. “I wanted to fix things-”

“By showing up drunk to a boxing gym?”

With no answer, Lucas gulps down the water before setting the empty glass aside, almost missing the bedside table completely.

I shake my head as I stand, eyeing the bruises on his face. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

By the time morning hits, Lucas is still dead to the world in his room, probably sleeping off whatever cheap whiskey he drowned himself in last night. I slept on the couch, waking up with a stiff neck and tense muscles.

I helped myself to coffee, halfway scrolling through nothing on my phone when I heard the shuffle of footsteps down the hall. Lucas emerges, hair a disaster, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and yesterday’s jeans.

“Morning, sunshine,” I huff. “You’re finally awake.”