Kavinsky laughed, soft, rolling the edge of his glass against bottom lip between a couple small sips. The tequila wasn't as harsh as the whiskey, but that was dangerous in its own way. He set the glass down and smudged a stray drop off the glass, sucking it off his thumb.

"If it's any consolation," he said, canting his hip slightly, "Nobody's offered to take me home yet either."

It hadn't been his intention, either, when he'd come in and been intending to drink himself into oblivion. Nothing was going to fill out the holes in his chest. But Kavinsky was used to existing in piecemeal. He smiled lazily, stroking his thumb over his bottom lip a few times.

"And you're not old."