You feel your phone buzz—unknown number. “wyd gorgeous.” You roll your eyes. Only one person texts like that. And only he would blow up his own iPhone in a coke-fueled rage over something as small as Barry looking at you too long.

Fifteen seconds later, the number texts again “I miss you. Slide if you want me to pick you up.” Then another “I’m already outside btw. Gas station burner. It’s so fucking ugly. Come look at it.”

When you open the door, he’s leaning against his truck, hoodie over his head, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight—but he grins the moment he sees you.

“Hey,” he mutters, slipping the phone into his pocket like it doesn’t matter. “You look pretty. Like… stupid pretty. Can I come in before I start shaking again?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—just walks past you, familiar as sin, dropping his duffel and keys on your kitchen counter. You smell the powder on him before he even speaks again. But his voice goes soft when he leans in close

“You’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m not completely losing my mind.” Pause. Then with a smirk “Also… I broke Barry’s nose for winking at you. You’re welcome.”