Gary leaned on the bar and raised two fingers — the universal gesture for “pint, please, and don’t comment on my face.”

The barman slid the drink across and squinted at him. “You alright, mate? You look… uneven.”

“Fine,” Gary said, the word drifting slightly to one side. “Just tired.”

The first sip hurt. The second hurt less. By the third, the pain had retreated into its usual sulk — still there, still threatening, but manageable. Alcohol did what alcohol always did: lowered inhibitions, raised confidence, and whispered comforting lies about how charming he probably was.

Gary relaxed a fraction, shoulders dropping as warmth spread through him. This was better. Not good. But better.

He glanced down the bar again.

The dentist laughed at something a customer said. A real laugh. Easy. Relaxed. The sort of laugh that suggested teeth were allies, not enemies.

Gary straightened.

This was it. The moment. If he waited any longer, he’d talk himself out of it or drink himself unconscious. Neither outcome felt productive.

He took another sip, set the glass down carefully, and squared his shoulders.

Now or never.

Approach her with liquid courage → Page 16