~Aria's POV~

I didn't move from that spot on the floor, paralyzed by the weight of his words. I kept crying, tears streaming down my face as I replayed everything in my mind.

How did it all come crashing down like this? What did I do wrong to deserve this? I thought of the three years — the trust, the love I gave, the work I poured into Eclipse — and how it was all twisted and used against me.

I thought of Ethan's smile on stage, of Serena's kiss, of the family ring on her finger. The pain and humiliation swirled, choking me.

My mind scattered, fragments of thoughts spinning uncontrollably. I needed to get out. I needed to clear my head.

I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs shaky, and stumbled out of the apartment into the relentless rain. I didn't bother with an umbrella; the cold water hit my face like a slap, but it didn't stop the tears.

I walked fast, not thinking of a destination until I saw the neon sign of a bar — O'Connor's — in the distance. I headed there, needing the dim anonymity of a public place.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door of O'Connor's and stepped inside. The bar was dimly lit, filled with the murmur of hushed conversations and the mellow scent of whiskey.

Patrons huddled in corners, seeking refuge in their drinks, and the air was a cocoon of semi-anonymity.

The bartender, a man with kind eyes and a scruffy beard, polished a glass with a white cloth as I approached the counter.

I slid onto a stool, my wet clothes clamping to me like a second skin, and met his gaze. My face must have been a mess — my eyes red, my mascara smeared — because the bartender's expression turned immediately concerned.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

I hesitated, unsure of what I wanted, but knowing I needed something strong. "Whiskey. Neat. The strongest you have," I said, my voice raw from crying.

The bartender nodded, his eyes lingering on my face for a sympathetic moment before he turned to grab a bottle from the top shelf.

"Coming right up. You okay, miss?" he added, his tone implying he didn't expect an answer but offered the question anyway.

I shook my head slightly, not trusting my voice, and he nodded understandingly. "Rough night?" he ventured, placing a tumbler of dark amber liquid in front of me.

I picked up the glass, focusing on the burn of the whiskey as it hit my throat. I took a moment before answering, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Rough everything." The bartender gave a small, knowing nod and pushed a box of tissues closer to me. "Take your time. Need to talk, or just need the drink?" he asked, his tone open. I shook my head again, focusing on the whiskey's numbing promise.

"Just the drink, thanks." He nodded and backed away, leaving me to my silence.

A few turns of alcohol had clouded my senses, and I was losing touch of my actions. I reached for the whiskey again, intending to take another gulp, but a strong hand intercepted mine, planking the tumbler away.

I hadn't even known someone was sitting beside me until then — a man took the drink from my hand and downed it in one swift, silent motion.

I stared at him, shocked, my blurry vision struggling to focus on his face. He was handsome — chiseled features, a sharp jawline, and dark, neatly trimmed stubble that added a touch of ruggedness.

His hair was dark and slightly messy, framing his face in a way that looked effortlessly attractive. But my inebriated state made it impossible to discern the color of his eyes — they were just dark, deep pools that seemed to bore into me. I didn't register any expression on his face, just an intent, observant gaze.

"What... what's for?" I slurred, my voice confused and affronted as I tried to reclaim my drink.

He caught my hand instead, his grip warm and firm, stopping me from reaching for the glass. The touch sent a jolt through my haze, and suddenly I didn't know how I was doing it, but I burst into tears.

Sobs racked my body, uncontrollable and raw, as words tumbled out of me like accusations.

"Why are you punishing me this way? Why don't you love me? Is Serena better than me?" I wailed, my face contorting with pain and anger, not even knowing who I was talking to.

The stranger didn't reply. He didn't flinch or release my hand; he simply watched me with that same intent, unreadable gaze.

When my torrent of words began to slow, he asked, his voice low and calm, "What should I do for you?"

I hesitated, my vision swimming with tears as I tried to process the question. I didn't know what I wanted — I didn't know anything except the ache in my chest and the chaos in my head.

My lips parted, and the words came out raw and needy: "Just kiss me. Hold me tight so I can stop my head from thinking."

There was a stunned pause and then, the stranger didn't hesitate. He said 'okay', his voice uninflected, and then pulled me into his arms.

His lips met mine in a firm, warm kiss, locking us together. The surrounding blurred further, but I felt the pressure of his body against mine, his hand around my neck, the heat of his mouth, the taste of his tongue and the numbness I craved.

He held me tight, and for a moment, and the thinking stopped.