There wasn’t that extra effort, that drive to make Fender’s life absolutely perfect at all times. It was just a job to him, doing it the best he could before he was excused to live his own life.

My old bedroom had been turned into a guest room that no one ever used, and when I stepped into Fender’s closet, I saw his clothes on the rack across from mine. The sheets always smelled like him. There weren’t vases of flowers because he didn’t care for them in his private room. They were replaced with glasses of scotch that he left behind on tables and nightstands.

He was quiet. Quieter than usual.

But I was too.

After we attended the funeral, we didn’t speak for two days.

Fender worked in his office while I read a book on the couch during the day, we had our meals together, and every night, he slept beside me like dropping his guard was the easiest thing in the world.

It was what I’d always wanted—just under the wrong circumstances.

We sat together in his living room, the TV above the fireplace showing the game. In his sweatpants, he sat with one ankle crossed on the opposite knee, his elbow on the armrest, nursing the glass of scotch on the table beside him.

I read my book.

He kept drinking and drinking, and then he took it to another level when he opened a brand-new bottle and refilled his empty glass.

I’d never seen him drink like this—unless he was at the camp. I shut my book and looked at him.

After he took a sip, he turned his face to regard me, like he felt my stare because he could see it.

“You’re drinking too much.” It was a mystery to me that he wasn’t stumbling around everywhere, losing his footing and knocking over furniture in a stupor. Whenever we kissed, I could taste the scotch—even in the morning.

He kept up his deep stare.

“I know it’s hard right now. I’m depressed too. But…it’s not good for you.”

I knew how much things had changed when he didn’t tell me off for telling him what to do. He poured the contents of the glass back into the bottle, tightened the lid, and then ignored it.

I couldn’t believe it. “Thank you.”

His eyes turned back to the TV.

I stared at the side of his face, the chiseled jawline that made a pronounced shadow down his neck, saw a man who was so hard but so gentle too. Our last conversation about my sister had disappeared from our minds, but it lived on in my heart. Because I knew he would do the right thing—eventually.

There was no doubt.

I left my book on the table then scooted closer to him, my arm hooking through his, my cheek moving to his shoulder.