Drunk Peter
Chris found him slumped at the end of Derek’s bar, a row of empty glasses in front of him. Derek just nodded toward Peter—your problem now.
Chris didn’t say anything. He got an arm under Peter’s shoulders, pulled him upright, and steered him toward the door. Peter mumbled something under his breath and let his head drop against Chris’ neck.
Chris’ jaw tightened. “Let’s go, Hale. You’re done.”
Getting him into the passenger seat was a fight against dead weight and flailing elbows. Chris wrestled the buckle into place, only to feel Peter’s hand clamp onto his coat.
Peter blinked up at him, eyes blurred and trying to settle. “He wasn't you,” he slurred, voice thick with whiskey.
Chris froze for a beat. Then he pried Peter’s fingers loose.
“Go to sleep Hale, you’re drunk.”