The second I wake, I know my body’s pissed at me. My eyes crack open, vision blurry, and Emma is curled beside me, buried in the comforter. Her brown hair spills across the pillow, her lips parted slightly, breathing soft and steady. My chest tightens the way it always does when I see her like this—peaceful, untouched by the bullshit waiting for me the moment I step out of this bed.
I lose my head around her. Every damn time. I know what’s safer for her, what Ishoulddo. But instead, I’m here...making love to her, whispering all the stupid hopes I keep locked inside, promising her a future I have no business promising.
Because the truth is, she has no idea how deep in the fire I really am.
She knows Nolan and Adriana keep me on a drug-soaked leash. But she doesn’t know about Alexei. She doesn’t know I’m playing attack dog. She doesn’t know the extent of the blood already on my hands...or the blood I’ll add to them. What’s left of my soul is paper-thin, and every day, it shreds a little more. I’m not supposed to be scared. I’ve always been the strong one. But thisnew reality?
It terrifies the living shit out of me.
I ease myself out of bed, moving slowly so I don’t wake her. I throw on a pair of sweats and drift into the living room. The space smells faintly like sugar from last night. Heather and Micah must’ve crashed in the guest room. The couches are a pileof blankets and pillows, and the kitchen island is still littered with forks and the remains of chocolate cake. It hits me harder than it should—this casual, domestic mess. Something normal. Something I could’ve had in another life.
I try not to think about what happens when the forced “mental health break” ends and Nolan and Adriana drag me back into the grinder. Honestly, if the tour hadn’t paused, if I’d kept spiraling the way I was...I’d probably already be dead.
I bend down and retrieve the black case from the coffee table. My fingers shake as soon as they touch it. If I just usea little, the withdrawals will quiet down, and I can coast the rest of the day on coke if I have to. But I can’t inject around Emma. I don’t want her see that again.
I step out back and settle beside the fire pit. The morning air bites my skin, smelling of ocean and seaweed. My hands move on autopilot—opening the kit, preparing the dose, tapping the syringe. The shame burns, but the need burns hotter, unfortunately. It pisses me off whenever someone tries to glorify or romanticize drug use. It’s fucking awful. It’s brutal. And I wish so desperately that I could go back.
I tighten the band around my arm. My eyes flick toward the sliding glass door, making sure she’s still asleep.
Then I slide the needle in.
Warmth floods me instantly, searing through my veins, softening everything that hurts. My eyes roll back as I sink into the chair, breath easing. The world loosens its grip.
And then I see her in my mind, curled against me, my mouth running with stupid dreams I shouldn’t have spoken aloud. A house. Kids. A life that promises a happy ending.Fuck me.Fuckme for giving her hope when I’m chained to hell.
But the worse truth is...I meant every word. I really, truly did. I just pray she’ll forgive me if I never get the chance to make any of it real.
The high settles in my blood just enough to make the shaking stop. By the time I slip back inside, the house is still dark except for a thin strip of gray morning light sneaking through the curtains.
I head into the kitchen and start pulling shit from the fridge. Eggs, bacon, pancake mix, whatever I can find that Micah bought. I’m moving quietly, keeping my breath even, forcing myself not to glance toward the hallway every two seconds. The more normal I act, the less anyone will notice anything’s wrong. I’m high as fuck, but it’s manageable.
The first sizzle of bacon fills the room, and butter hits the pan, popping. For a minute, the kitchen smells like when my mom used to cook on Saturday mornings. The weekends that Emma stayed with us, my mom, Vanessa, and her would babble and joke and cook together while I sat there like an exhausted lump.
I flip the bacon, trying not to think about any of it.
Heather appears first, bleary-eyed, blonde hair in a chaotic bun, drowning in a blanket she probably stole from the guest room. She stops, squints at me, then groans, “Why the fuck are you awake? It’s barely light out.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, plating the bacon.
She trudges into the kitchen, grabs a piece right off the plate, yelps at the heat, and almost drops it, eats it anyway. “God, I love you.”
“You love pork fat,” I correct.
“Same thing,” she mumbles.
I roll my eyes at her tired insult.
Micah wanders in next, rubbing at his brow. “Youcooked?Is this because I order DoorDash on your account too much?”
“You bought the shit and haven’t cooked it, so I figured I’d make it,” I tell him.
Heather snorts.
Micah pours himself coffee, leans against the counter, watching me like he’s trying to take stock of something. I keep my focus on the pan. If he notices I’m a little too calm, a little too loose, he doesn’t mention it. In fact, my eyes slide to his, and I can immediately tell. He must have slipped out a little earlier than I did. When you’re a heroin user, you do what you have to do.
And then I hear the sound of soft footsteps down the hall and a sleepy inhale. Emma steps into the kitchen wearing my hoodie, sleeves swallowing her hands, her hair pushed to one side like she’s been rolling around in the sheets. Her black athletic sleep shorts show off her perfect, shapely legs. I stare like a fucking creep for a moment before averting my gaze. Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, and when they land on me, something in my chest tightens.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice raspy.