Last Chance

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NOTHING SEEMS AS pretty as the past.

Alex Turner said it best in his ballad and Caleb Breland is now seeing the declaration come to its fruition.

It's a Monday evening and he's slaving himself at the firm again, but it's not too bad. The light of sundown filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, granting him one hell of a view.

He's sitting upright on his swivel chair in the way only blokes of his caliber sit—with faint arrogance and the world falling at his feet. A rub to his temple tells him that he's overstayed his welcome at work again, so he starts gathering his belongings at break-neck speed.

Fixing his cuff links, he's just about to shut the door and see himself out before he glimpses some git with hair the colour of molten champagne coupled with an unflinching, steely gaze that mirrors the hue of a jade lake. He's donned in a sharp suit, beelining towards Caleb's office while diligently mastering his facial muscles.

As usual, his eyes speak before his mouth can. Caleb sees it, clear in his gaze—bad news that's spread like wildfire. Caleb had been wondering how long until Vincent Deneuve would be brought up to speed, and it seems that he finally has. Wordlessly, Caleb edges the door of his office open, holding it out for his best mate and coworker to breeze by him.

It's only when Caleb makes his way to his swivel seat, legs propped up on the ridge of his desk, that Vincent's low voice breaks the silence. "You've heard the news, I assume?"

Caleb let's his head fall back. Then gives him a glib answer, mentioning to Vince—as he goes by family and peers—something along the lines of assuming makes an ass out of...

"—You and me," Vince finishes before shrugging out of his suit jacket and discarding it on the gray area rug underfoot the coffee table. Vince then saunters over the ledge by the window and hops on it, toeing down the line without any qualms. "So. Are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"How you've roped yourself into the melodramatic saga of your ex-fiancée's tragedy."

"You're an arse,"

"I've been called worse. So, spill."

Caleb swallows, tugging a finger at the noose around his neck. He gives his friend a general rundown, something that ought to tug at his heartstrings. Especially seeing as Vince had been her friend too, moreso a big brother to her. He had saved her time and time again whenever she needed it, possibly even more whenever she didn't want it—so all this hurt Caleb felt, he probably felt it twice as deeply.

Albeit, Vince didn't quite understand why Caleb was running back to her even though she'd been permanently cut out of both of their lives for some lengthy time now. Seven bloody years, to be exact. He didn't say it but with one sideview glance at his clear, opaque eyes, Caleb could tell Vince knew there was more than what met the eye. Something he was refraining from telling him.

He's right, of course. But he keeps his mouth shut anyway.

That's the thing with Vince, he's always been a man of few words. Only speaks when he's being spoken to or if something is in dire need to be addressed. He's reclusive in the sense that he doesn't put himself out there long enough to need anybody but somehow everybody needs him.