The bar wasn't particularly loud. It was just… dim. A place where broken men came to forget. And Ralph Lauren fit right in tonight.
He sat at the far end of the counter, away from the muttering crowd and the glowing screen of the football match playing overhead. The bartender glanced at him once, did a double-take, and frowned. He looked too pristine for a place like this, too rich, too sharp—even with his undone tie and creased shirt, the weight of power still clung to his shoulders like a storm.
But there was something else too. Something cracked.
"Whiskey," Ralph muttered, not bothering to meet the man's eyes. "Neat. Don't water it."
The first glass burned his throat. The second numbed it.
By the third, the tightness in his chest was still there. That sharp, aching punch of disbelief that kept playing on repeat in his mind—Alison. Her guy's arm around her waist. The way she walked away from him like he never mattered. Like he was just some convenient bed she used. And Jason? Was he the next one?
His jaw clenched.
Did she play him? Was this some long game? Sleep with the boss, get a promotion, quit like a queen? Was she stringing them all along?
"Another," he barked, slamming the glass down.
The bartender hesitated. "You're gonna feel this in the morning, man."
"Good," Ralph said bitterly, voice gravelled and low. "At least I'll feel something real."
He laughed to himself—cold and broken—as he stared into the golden liquor.
He'd been so close to telling her. So damn close to letting his guard down. To saying I don't want anyone else but you.
Stupid.
He downed the next shot. And another. Until the counter started tilting sideways, and his body grew heavy, slow, uncoordinated. He tried to get up, staggered, grabbed the edge of the bar, and collapsed right back onto the stool.
His head swam. A mess of voices, memories, kisses that felt too deep to fake. The way she looked at him that night in the car. Her breathless moans. Her trembling fingers. The way she held him like he was hers.
Lies. Maybe all of it was a fucking lie.
The bartender watched him for a while, concerned now. Ralph's fingers were limp around the rim of the glass. His head tilted forward. His voice mumbled things he didn't even understand anymore.
"…Alison… why…?"
"Alright, man," the bartender sighed, wiping his hands and grabbing a phone. "You're gone. Completely gone. You need to get home before you pass out on my counter."
He walked around and gently patted Ralph's shoulder. "You got someone I can call? You shouldn't be alone like this."
Ralph, half-lost in haze, dragged a hand into his pocket, fumbled his phone out, and shoved it toward him. The screen was still on the last dialed list.
Jane.
The last person that called him. The bartender blinked. Ralph mumbled "Not Jane, not even her please, please call Ali.... son".
The bartender checked the call history and saw Alison and dialled it without hesitation.
And the phone began to ring.
Alison was curled up on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders, Michelle's soft snores drifting from the other room. Her laptop blinked beside her with a half-written CV she hadn't touched in hours. She just… couldn't. Not when her mind kept spinning.
She'd done it. She'd finally walked away.
Lauren Enterprises, Ralph, the pain, the anger—she left it all behind. Or at least she was trying to. But her heart didn't get the memo. It still ached. Still wandered back to that night in the car. His hands on her waist. His lips murmuring against her neck like she was the only truth in his world.
Stupid heart.
She let out a heavy sigh, pressing her forehead to her knees. Don't think about him. He made his choice.
The room buzzed.
At first, she thought she imagined it. Then it came again. Her phone. It vibrated against the table like it had something urgent to say.
Unknown Number. Her brows drew in.
She hesitated, picked it up anyway. "Hello?"
There was a pause on the line, then the sound of low music. Glasses clinking. Someone breathing.
"…Is this Alison?" a man's voice asked—gentle, unfamiliar, but firm.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling from—uh, BlackJack Bar. There's a man here… Ralph Lauren. He's completely out of it. Too much to drink. He passed out on my counter. He told me I should call you, so…"
Her blood ran cold.
Ralph?
Passed out?
The bartender continued, unsure. "I just figured… you might want to know. Or maybe send someone? He can't drive. He barely knows his name right now."
Alison stood, blanket falling off her shoulders. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know what to say, what to feel. Part of her wanted to scream Let him suffer. Another part…
Another part was already grabbing her keys. She didn't remember grabbing her keys. Or slipping on her slides. One moment, Alison was standing in her living room, frozen with the phone still pressed to her ear. The next, she was running down the steps of her apartment building, barely locking the door behind her.
It was past midnight. The wind was cool. The roads were mostly empty, just the hum of her car engine echoing in the silence. She kept stealing glances at the GPS as it guided her to BlackJack Bar, fingers clenched so tightly around the wheel her knuckles ached.
Why do I care this much? Why is my heart racing like this?
He was the one who kissed Jane, then he should call her. He was the one who said nothing when her world fell apart in front of him. He was the one who made her feel cheap.
So why was she flying through red lights, whispering please let him be okay over and over like a prayer?
Her chest burned. She couldn't answer any of it.
By the time she pulled into the dark parking lot, her breathing was uneven. The sign blinked above the entrance: BlackJack Bar – Open Till Late. She didn't think. She just moved.
The scent of smoke, stale beer, and heartbreak hit her the moment she stepped in.
And then she saw him.
Ralph.
Slouched over the counter in a way she had never seen. His once-perfect shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled unevenly. His hair was tousled. Eyes shut. One hand cradling a half-empty glass. The bartender spotted her immediately and nodded in her direction.
"He's been like that for an hour," the man said quietly. "Tried calling a couple people. Most didn't pick up. You were the only one he kept murmuring about."
Alison's lips parted slightly. "Murmuring?"
The bartender tilted his head. "Your name. A lot. Something about how he messed up. How you… how you looked at him like he mattered. How he doesn't deserve that."
Her throat tightened. She walked slowly, unsure if her legs were moving because she wanted to… or because something deeper inside her needed to.
She crouched beside him, and even drunk, even wasted and broken, he smelled like him. That maddening, expensive cologne. His jaw was slack. Lips parted slightly. He looked peaceful—no, he looked wrecked beneath the stillness.
"Ralph," she said softly, gently brushing a knuckle against his temple. "Ralph…"
He groaned, heavy and low.
His lashes fluttered, eyes barely cracking open.
Then—"Alison?" he slurred, voice thick, confused, raw.
She froze.
He reached up suddenly, palm clumsy against her cheek. "You came," he whispered. "You really came..."
And then, without warning, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against her shoulder, breathing her in like she was the only real thing he had left.
And she just sat there, holding him quietly, heart pounding against her ribs. She didn't know if she'd forgive him. She didn't know if she even could.
But for this moment—for this fragile, broken heartbeat—she stayed.
She didn't know how long she sat there, holding him.
Ralph's breathing was uneven, lips brushing against the fabric of her sleeve, like even in his drunken state he needed to cling to something—anything—real. And somehow, that something was her.
Alison blinked slowly, her gaze drifting to the bottles behind the counter, to the dull flicker of neon lights across the shelves. A low whistle broke the silence.
She turned her head slightly.
The bartender was still watching them from behind the counter. He looked older up close—maybe in his fifties, with soft eyes and a clean apron, wiping the same glass for minutes like he had nothing else to do but exist in the quiet.
"I'm sorry," Alison murmured.
He shrugged once, offering her the barest smile. "You don't need to apologize. He's been quiet the whole time. Barely touched the last drink."
She lowered her gaze. "He said anything strange?"
The man leaned on the counter. "Strange, no. Sad? Yes. Real sad."
He waited a second, then added, "People come here for different reasons. To get high, to get loud. To forget. Your guy… he didn't want to forget. He wanted to feel it. Whatever it was."
Alison's throat tightened. "He's not my guy."
The bartender tilted his head. "You sure? 'Cause from the way he said your name… might've fooled the stars."
She let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking back to Ralph. He hadn't moved. The only sign he was still awake was the way his fingers twitched, like he was chasing something in a dream.
The man's eyes softened. "He also said… you looked at him like he wasn't the monster he thinks he is. That it scared him. That maybe he didn't deserve it, but he didn't want it to stop either."
Alison didn't know what to say.
For a moment, she just sat there, her heart stirring in a way she didn't have words for.
"He's not… always like this," she said, more to herself.
The bartender nodded. "No one ever is. That's what's funny about people. We think they're cold or arrogant or cruel—until they're sitting in a bar at 1 a.m. whispering someone's name like a prayer."
Alison bit the inside of her cheek, emotion rising fast. She blinked it back. Then she slowly stood.
The bartender gave her a nod. "I can help you get him up if you want."
"No," she said softly. "I've got him."
She crouched beside Ralph again, gently tugging at his arm. "Come on," she whispered. "We're going home."
He mumbled something under his breath. She didn't catch it. Just looped his arm around her shoulder and rose with a grunt, dragging his heavy weight with surprising ease. He leaned on her clumsily, head lolling to the side.
"You smell good," he slurred into her neck, lips barely grazing skin.
"Shut it or I will drop you" she muttered, heat rising to her face.
Outside, the air was colder. The street was quiet. She helped him across the lot and opened the car door, guiding him down into the passenger seat. He slumped against it with a low sigh, hand falling across his lap.
She reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across him.
That's when his hand brushed hers.
"Stay," he murmured.
She stilled.
His eyes were barely open, but the way he said it—like she was the only person left in his world—made her heart clench.
"I'll stay," she said gently, tucking the belt into the buckle. "But not here."
He didn't respond.
Just leaned his head against the window, breathing slow and warm.
She paused before shutting the door, staring at him for a second longer.
Then she walked around, slid behind the wheel, and pulled the car into the night—one hand firm on the steering, the other resting quietly between them… not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the gravity between them.