When had it come to this?

You didn't even flinch as you downed another bottle, the burn barely noticeable anymore.

You stared through half-lidded eyes at the glass in your hand, the edges of your vision swimming. A bitter groan escaped your throat as you gave the bottle a lazy swirl, then tipped it back, draining the last of it.

The empty bottle slammed against the bar top, the sound too sharp, too loud. You raised a hand—sloppily, demandingly—for another.

What was left to lose, really?

Dignity? That was gone long ago. Respect? No one had any left for you. And you couldn’t give it in return, not anymore.

You’d wasted too many years trying to shape yourself into something people could love. Something they could find value in. But the truth had always lingered at the edge of your mind, creeping in like rot: you would never be worth it.

You would never be good enough.

You were too far gone in your thoughts to notice the figure approaching. Not until a hand yanked you violently back by the collar of your jacket, tearing you off the barstool.

Your eyes shot open wide, your balance completely shot, and your knees nearly buckled beneath you as you stumbled to the floor.

“You fucking idiot,” a voice spat from behind you.

That voice.

Your body froze for a second. Any other time, you might’ve thrown a punch. Started a fight just to feel something. But not this time. Not when the voice was so damn familiar.

Jason.

Of course it was Jason.

“What the hell are you doing?” he barked, his grip on your arm firm and unforgiving as he hauled you to your feet. There was no gentleness in his movements—just panic, masked poorly with anger.

You let out a broken laugh, slurred and sloppy. “Leave me alone,” you muttered, attempting to shove him away. But your arms barely moved, too heavy, too slow. You had no strength left to fight. How many had you drank anyway, four bottles? Five? You’d stopped keeping track.

The cold night air slammed into you as the bar door flew open, stinging your skin and jolting your senses like a slap to the face.

Jason didn’t care. He was seething, practically dragging you outside like dead weight.

“Are you some fucking moron? What are you doing?!” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of frustration and fear.

“Shaddup,” you mumbled, letting your head droop, your words slipping out like water through your fingers.

That’s when Jason spun you around hard, grabbing you by the front of your jacket and hauling you in close. His face was inches from yours, breath hot, eyes narrowed with fury.

But beneath the fire, beneath the anger blazing in his expression… was something else.

Worry.