“Mmm,” Mikey hums softly as he climbs into bed behind you, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. His face nestles into your neck, unaware that his late-night return had stirred you from your sleep.

He stiffens when you murmur his name, your quiet voice breaking the silence. As you turn to face him, his hands remain steady on your waist. “Sorry,” he mumbles, guilt lacing his tone. “I didn’t mean to wake you, baby.”

Your voice is groggy as you rub the sleep from your eyes. “Where’d you go?” you ask, your gaze drifting to him. The sight of his shoes still on his feet and his jacket loosely clinging to his shoulders sets off alarm bells in your mind.

Mikey has a bad habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night, never bothering to let you know he’s leaving. He waits until you’re asleep, slipping away without a word. As for where he goes? You’re not entirely sure, though you’ve always had your suspicions.

Just a few months ago, Mikey had been in a dark place—caught in the grip of a painkiller addiction that left him unable to function without it. It had taken a toll on both of you, his dependence disrupting every aspect of his life.

You worked tirelessly to help him get clean, and for a while, it seemed to be working. He stopped carrying pill bottles around, started looking healthier, happier even. But lately, things had taken a turn. The sneaking out had returned, along with the subtle but unmistakable signs of his relapse.

“Hmm?” he deflects, feigning nonchalance. “Nowhere. I didn’t go anywhere, baby,” he mutters. But as he shifts on the bed, the unmistakable rattle of a pill bottle echoes from his pocket.

He freezes, a defeated sigh escaping him as he buries his face in his hand. “Fuck.”