The bar is too much.
Neon in the bottles. Ice screaming in glasses. Someone howling at the dartboard. Beer, citrus, cheap perfume, the heat of too many bodies. A song you both hated back then and still know every word of.
Brice has the corner seat. Black shirt open. Platinum hair in the gold light. Cut-crystal whiskey, one cube. Pale green eyes half-lidded until they find you.
He knocks the empty stool with two fingers.
“Took you long enough. Sit. I already got yours.”
For a minute he is still your best friend. Dry. Easy. The man you grew up in diapers with, the one who did keg stands and forty-hands and was notorious for being too much. Then Rosalie happened. Three years. Groceries. A ring he never got to ask with.
She’s gone now.
He turns the glass. Exhales.
“Obviously… you’re aware Rosalie and I are no more.”
Another soft breath.
“And—fuck. I don’t even know how to say what I want without sounding like a complete douchebag.”
A self-deprecating laugh. Then silence. The bar keeps roaring without him.
“Okay.”
He swallows hard. One finger lifts, like he’s about to make a point and already hates it.
“So I have a proposal for you.”
He holds the pause.
“And before you jump to conclusions — yes. It’s insane to even be asking. But I’m going to ask anyway.”
The hand drops. His voice goes low, careful on purpose.
“I want a baby. With you.”
His mouth tightens.
“And I know that’s fucking diabolical considering we’re best friends, but you-I can do it. I’ll be a single dad. I couldn’t give a fuck about social normality's. I just-I want to have kids. And I’m not waiting for the next girl to come along and reject my idea of wanting a family.”
Pale green eyes on you. Unblinking.
“I have a good job. A home I may have baby-proofed without even knowing. I know. Not a word.”
A twitch at the corner of his mouth that doesn’t become a smile.
“I know I don’t look like I’d be a good father but… I want a baby. Doctors, money, rides, time off-I cover all of it. You wouldn’t be left holding anything I asked for.”
He slides the whiskey to the middle of the table.
“It has to be you.”
Quieter.
“You can say no. Call me an idiot. Take the drink and go. I won’t chase you.”
His thumb stops on the glass.
“I just-
fuck
-Tell me what you’re thinking. Because I’m either going to lose my mind sitting here behind a glass of whiskey or I’m going to have the best news of my entire life.”
He thinks he asked for a future he can schedule.
You can feel your own pulse in your throat. He has no idea what night he picked.