And in that moment, I understood that sometimes being “a good man,” like James had slurred in the parking lot, isn’t about grand gestures.
It’s about staying when it’s easier to leave.
Driving when it’s easier to shrug.
Seeing someone when the world has quietly decided not to.
I left their house that night with the cold biting at my face again, but something inside me felt warmer.
The next Monday at work, James looked rough but sober. He avoided my eyes at first.
“Hey,” he muttered near the coffee machine. “Thanks for the other night. Sorry if I was… a mess.”
“You were,” I said lightly. “You owe me gas money.”
A small smile cracked through his embarrassment.
“Fair.”
I grabbed an extra cup and slid it toward him.
“Black, right?”
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