By the time we pull into my driveway, Lena looks exhausted, not physically, but the kind of drained that comes from too much fear, too much pressure, too much everything. I unlock the door and step inside first, flipping on the lights. “Make yourself at home,” I tell her gently. “Sit wherever you want.” She hovers in the entryway like she’s afraid to touch anything. I try to lighten the mood. “You want something? Tea? Water? Snack?”
She lets out a small, tired laugh. “Honestly? I need something a little harder. And greasy.”
That actually pulls a real smile out of me. “Okay,” I say, heading to the small bar cabinet. “Hard, coming right up.”
I grab the bottle of whiskey, the good one, and hand it to her.
She blinks. “You’re just… giving me the bottle?”
“You said hard,” I shrug. “And I’l
