Tears fill his eyes, and my heart rate kicks up. What’s happening? “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “Yes. I do,” he mutters so softly I nearly miss it. Frowning, I study him more closely, taking in the way his nostrils flare with a sniffle. He sounds sick—congested—but I know that’s likely just because he’s drunk. “Shoulda been me.”
