I don’t deserve her.

Not in this life, not in the next. Probably not in any fucking lifetime at all.

But she’s here anyway.

She’s kneeling in front of me, eyes locked on mine, her hands gripping my wrists like she’s trying to hold me together through sheer will alone. Like I’m not already coming apart at the seams. Like I haven’t already lost this fight a hundred times before.

“Joey,” she says, soft but firm, and I can’t look away.

I hate that.

I hate that she sees me like this—skin clammy, muscles aching, bones rattling under the weight of withdrawal. I hate that she’s watching me shake, that she knows exactly why.

But she doesn’t let go.

“It’s going to pass,” she whispers, squeezing my hands. “I promise, it’s going to pass.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t get it. “I don’t know how to do this,” I rasp, voice raw, throat like sandpaper.

“Yes, you do,” she fires back instantly, stubborn as fuck. “You’ve been doing it. Every second you say no is you doing it.”

My laugh is hollow, bitter. “I feel like I’m dying.”

Her grip tightens. “You’re living.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the cold wall behind me. The temptation is there, curling in my gut like a sickness, whispering to me that all of this could be over if I just gave in. That the pain, the shaking, the fucking void inside me—none of it would exist if I just took the easy way out.

One hit. That’s all it would take.

But she’s still holding on.

And fuck if that doesn’t make it harder to let go.

I feel her shift closer, pressing her forehead against mine. Her breath is warm, steady, grounding. “I love you, Joey.” The words are barely more than a whisper, but they land like a sledgehammer to my chest. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

A tremor runs through me—not from withdrawal this time, but from something worse. Something scarier.

Hope.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe her in.

I don’t deserve her.

But maybe—just maybe—I can try to be someone who does.