The next morning, Erin descended the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet house. The rest of the Intelligence Unit sat at the kitchen table, their concern etched on their faces.
"Where's Jay?" Kim asked, her gaze following Erin.
Erin hesitated, her voice soft. "He's still asleep. I think he needs more rest."
Antonio leaned forward. "Did he say anything?"
Erin shook her head. "Not yet. But I'll keep an eye on him."
Jay descended the stairs, his expression weary. The team gathered around him, concern etched on their faces.
"What was the call about?" Kim asked, her voice gentle.
Jay muttered, "You can't let it drop, can you?"
The room fell silent as Jay's words hung in the air. His eyes bore the weight of a painful truth—the kind that could unravel even the strongest bonds.
Kim cleared her throat. "Jay, we didn't mean—"
He cut her off, voice raw. "My mom. She's sick. Terminal. I've been trying to hold it together, but it's eating me alive."
Antonio's expression softened. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Jay's jaw clenched. "Because I can't lose her. Not after everything."
Erin stepped forward. "Jay—"
He grabbed his jacket, storming toward the door. "I need air. Don't follow me."
The dimly lit bar hummed with activity as Jay sat on a stool, his mind clouded by the shots he'd downed. He signaled the bartender for another round, but this time, the bartender hesitated.
"Sorry, mate," the bartender said, wiping a glass. "I think you've had enough."
Jay's temper flared. "What's it to you? Pour the damn drink."
The bartender leaned in, concern etching his features. "Look, I've seen this before. You're drowning something out. Can I call someone for you?"
Jay's eyes flickered with vulnerability. His mom's face flashed before him—the pain, the fear. He shook his head, voice barely audible. "No one can fix this."
And with that, he stormed out, leaving the bar behind.
The bartender observed two friendly men supporting Jay, who was giggling uncontrollably.
With a knowing look, the bartender motioned for them to bring Jay inside.
"I'll get some water into him," he said, concern etched on his face.
The bartender handed Jay a glass of water, concern etched on his face.
Jay took a few sips, the giggles subsiding. The two friendly men hovered nearby, their presence a silent comfort.
The bartender leaned in, concern etching his features. "Jay, can I call someone for you?"
Jay slurred, his words barely coherent. "Erin."
The bartender exchanged a knowing glance with the friendly men. "Erin it is, then."
The bartender, ever watchful, noticed Jay slumped over, fast asleep in a corner booth. He motioned to the friendly men.
"Help me get him upstairs," he said quietly.
Together, they lifted Jay's limp form and guided him toward the hotel rooms above the bar.
The tension in the cabin grew palpable as the team huddled together. Erin's expression mirrored their collective worry. "Has Jay called?" Antonio asked, his voice low.
Erin shook her head. "Straight to voicemail. Something's not right."
Erin's heart raced as she took the call. "Jay?" she said, her voice trembling.
His reply crackled through the line. "Erin, I—" His words faltered, and she could almost see the weight he carried.
She sank into a chair, the cabin's walls closing in. "Jay, where are you?"
His answer was a whisper. "I'm sorry."