Chapter 162 Glass and Morning Light
Chapter 162 Glass and Morning Light
Nate’s POV
Gavin had been at the firm since before sunrise.
I knew because the lights were already on when Theodore and I walked into the lobby, and the receptionist gave us a look that said Gavin had blown past her without a word hours ago. Hollis & Hollis was quiet at this hour — polished floors, glass walls, the faint hum of the building waking up. Too quiet for how loud Gavin’s head must have been.
We took the elevator up to the executive floor. The doors opened to the familiar hallway lined with framed verdicts and plaques bearing his father’s name. Gavin hated those walls. Today, he looked like he was trying to outrun them.
He sat at the long conference table, sleeves rolled up, tie abandoned somewhere, a half‑empty bottle of whiskey beside his laptop. His posture was rigid, shoulders tight, jaw locked. He was typing something, deleting it, typing again. The kind of frantic, pointless work a man does when he’s trying not to think.
He didn’t acknowledge us when we walked in.
That was fine. We weren’t here for conversation.
Theodore dropped his backpack onto a chair and sat, flipping open a medical journal. He didn’t look at Gavin, didn’t comment on the whiskey, didn’t ask why Gavin was working through a stack of contracts that weren’t his. He just settled in, present without intruding.
I took the seat across from Gavin, leaning back, arms folded loosely. Not crowding him. Not confronting him. Just there. Sometimes presence was the only thing we had to offer each other.
Gavin’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle again. He poured another inch into the glass, the amber liquid catching the morning light.
Theodore’s eyes flicked up briefly.
Not judgment.
Not concerned.
Just recognition.
Gavin took a slow sip, exhaled, and stared at the screen as if it had personally offended him.
“You’re gripping that glass like it owes you money,” Theodore said, voice flat.
Gavin didn’t respond.
He didn’t blink.
Theodore turned a page in his journal. “You planning to rewrite that contract until it disappears?”
“It’s fine,” Gavin muttered.
“It was fine an hour ago.”
Gavin ignored him.
I watched him for a long moment. The way he sat — coiled, braced — reminded me of someone preparing for impact. Not physical. Emotional. The kind that leaves bruises you can’t see.
He’d been like this ever since he ended things with Eliza.
Not that he’d said it. Not that he’d explained. But we knew. We always knew.
Gavin Hollis didn’t walk away because he stopped caring. He walked away because caring terrified him. Because caring meant vulnerability. Because vulnerability meant risk. And risk — emotional risk — was the one battlefield he refused to step onto.
He took another drink, jaw tightening.
“You eat today?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t look at me. “Not hungry.”
“You’re not supposed to be hungry,” I said. “You’re supposed to be functional.”
He let out a humorless sound. “I’m not that either.”
Theodore leaned back in his chair. “You’re going to be useless by noon.”
Gavin’s mouth twitched — not a smile, not a grimace, just a flicker of something tired. “Already am.”
I didn’t say anything else.
He wasn’t talking about work.
He was talking about her.
Theodore closed his journal. “You want me to take you home?”
“No.”
“You want me to call someone?”
“No.”
“You want to keep pretending you’re working?”
Gavin’s jaw flexed. “Yes.”
Theodore didn’t push.
He never pushed.
I stood, crossed the room, grabbed a bottle of water from the mini‑fridge, and set it beside Gavin’s elbow. He didn’t look at it. But his fingers twitched, as if he’d noticed.
He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down slowly. “She blocked me.”
Theodore didn’t react.
I didn’t either.
We weren’t the kind of men who reacted to confessions. We let them land, let them settle, let them exist without commentary.
Gavin swallowed hard. “That’s it.”
Theodore’s voice was quiet. “You made sure of that.”
Gavin’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything else.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. The kind that made the air feel thick, like the room itself was bracing for something to break.
Gavin reached for the whiskey again.
I put my hand over the bottle.
Not forceful.
Not confrontational.
Just enough.
He froze.
His eyes lifted to mine — tired, hollow, angry in a way that wasn’t directed at me.
I didn’t move my hand.
He didn’t move his.
We stayed like that for a long moment, tension taut but familiar. This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t a challenge. This was the closest thing we had to intervention — a silent boundary, a quiet reminder.
Finally, Gavin let go of the bottle.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling shakily. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”
Theodore’s voice was flat. “You did.”
Gavin’s eyes closed.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t defend himself.
He didn’t explain.
He just sat there, breathing like each inhale cost him something.
I watched him — my best friend, my brother in everything but blood — and felt the familiar ache settle in my chest. The ache of knowing someone was breaking and being powerless to stop it. The ache of seeing a man cut off a limb to save the rest of his body and knowing he’d bleed anyway.
He wasn’t drinking because he didn’t care.
He was drinking because he cared too much.
Theodore stood, gathering his backpack. “I’ll be in the lobby.”
Gavin didn’t look up.
I stayed where I was, leaning against the table, watching the morning light catch the edges of Gavin’s hair. He looked older today. Not in years. In weight.
“You’re not alone in this,” I said quietly.
He didn’t look at me, but his shoulders shifted — a small, almost imperceptible release of tension.
He rubbed his thumb against the rim of the glass, staring at the water bottle like it was a lifeline he didn’t know how to reach for.
I didn’t say anything else.
I didn’t offer advice.
I didn’t tell him he’d made a mistake.
I didn’t tell him to fix it.
I just stayed.
Silent.
Present.
A witness.
Because sometimes that was all we could do for each other — stand in the wreckage, keep watch, and wait for the storm to pass.
Even if it never did.