Kavinsky scrubbed at his head. He was neither sober nor fucked up enough for this. His toes curled in his socks, and slowly, he edged toward Newt, and the couch, and sank down into it.

"No, he is," Kavinsky said, pathetically, because he felt pathetic. He kept his eyes down. "It--he is. He's a hard no."

Part of him wanted to try and explain, but all it did was sound like excuses, and he didn't want that. He'd be honest, if Newt asked, but he didn't volunteer what he'd done--that it was bad, because he should have just wrestled the keys away from Poison and taken him home, but it could have been worse. So much worse.

He turned his wedding ring around on his finger.