Zoe's POV
A cold chill ran through my spine as Brandon's weight pressed onto me. Heavier than he looked. For a heartbeat, he leaned into my shoulder, then pushed off, as though stubborn pride forced him upright.
"Don't worry—I'm fine," he muttered, stumbling forward.
He wasn't. Not even close. It was a miracle he hadn't collapsed already. I stood there watching his slow, uneven gait as he moved toward his room, each step more a battle than a stride.
I wasn't surprised. Brandon was the type who would rather bleed out silently than ask anyone for a bandage. He drowned his troubles in alcohol, drowning himself along with them, instead of admitting he was hurting. Even now, swaying, practically falling, he kept clinging to the illusion of control.
I frowned. Why did I care so much? He clearly didn't want help. He never did.
