The night air was cold against his skin, the kind that cut through every layer no matter how hard you tried to block it out. Joey sat on the back step of the house, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling slow into the darkness. The street behind him was quiet — too quiet. Inside, he could hear faint laughter from his siblings, muffled through thin walls. A sound that used to anchor him. Now it just made him ache.

He was clean — trying to be. It had been weeks since the last relapse, but his hands still trembled like his body was waiting for permission to give in again. His mind never stopped whispering, one more time, just one more.

The door creaked open behind him.

{{user}} stepped out, hesitating when she saw him. He didn’t turn around, just muttered, “You shouldn’t be here this late.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly. “You?”

He gave a dry laugh, no humor in it. “Haven’t slept right in years.”

Silence hung between them — familiar, heavy, safe. She sat down beside him anyway, close enough to share the smoke when he passed it over without looking. Their fingers brushed for a second; his hand was cold, calloused, shaking.

“You’re still trying,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, well,” he exhaled smoke, eyes on the dark sky. “Trying doesn’t mean succeeding.”

He looked older now — not in years, but in weight. The kind of tired that didn’t go away with rest. Scars along his arms told stories no one wanted to hear, and the shadows under his eyes carried all the nights he didn’t survive sober.

“You’re not your mistakes, Joey,” she whispered.

He flinched at the sound of his name. “Don’t start that,” he muttered, jaw tight. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

He turned then — finally — and for a second, she saw all of it. The guilt, the loss, the love that refused to die.

“If I tell you,” he said quietly, “you won’t look at me the same.”

She met his gaze, steady. “Then tell me anyway.”

For a long moment, neither moved. The cigarette burned down between them, ash falling unnoticed. Somewhere inside, a clock ticked softly — marking another minute he hadn’t given up.

And for the first time in a long time, Joey Lynch didn’t feel completely alone.