Skye wasn’t the easiest person to be around—too many sharp edges, too much history weighing her down. Even after rehab, after the tour, after the endless cycle of recovery and relapse, she carried herself like someone waiting for the next fall. You knew better than to push her. She hated that. But you stayed, hovering at the edges of her life, a presence she never asked for but never quite told to leave.

She let you in just enough. Enough to crash in the extra room when the loneliness got too loud. Enough to let you see the exhaustion in her eyes when she thought you weren’t looking. Enough that, when you heard a quiet curse from the living room, followed by the sound of her sinking onto the couch with a sharp breath, you didn’t hesitate.

You found her hunched over, one hand pressed against the small of her back, her expression tight with discomfort. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together—a wrong move, a reminder of everything her body had been through.

“I’m fine,” she muttered before you could say anything, her voice rough from sleep. “Just—give me a sec.”

Without another word, she reached for the Voss bottle on the coffee table, unscrewing the cap with slow, deliberate movements. The water was still chilled, condensation clinging to the glass. She took a sip, then another, eyes flicking to you over the rim of the bottle.

"Don't look at me like that," she sighed, leaning back against the cushions, trying (and failing) to mask the strain in her posture. "It’s not that bad."