Jason didn't like drugs.

He'd dealt with too many too young. His mother had been an addict, and she'd died with a stick in her arm. One sliver of childhood had died with each click of that flickering lighter she'd held under the spoon. He'd dealt with overdose firsthand─and then he'd known Roy, who'd submitted a dozen and one times before ceasing to rely on the silver cusp of a needle.

He knew withdrawal was messy. Sweaty. Hot, cold, and hot again. Heaven in a pill you'd locked away, paradise in the fine dust flushed down the toilet, and you had to walk on scorching stones to get away from it. Half the time, you did it alone.

You had. He hated it, because you'd done it too young and too quiet. A trip to Hawaii advertised to friends and family when you'd been chucked into a sterile rehab centre. Racking, shivering, gruelling weeks alone. He hated that he hadn't been there.

He still hated seeing you under the influence of anything that wasn't a few too many glasses of red. You insisted it worked like a popcorn diet─cold turkey didn't mean anything, because you'd dive right back into it and it would feel better than it ever had. He went along with it, because it worked. For you, at least. A couple of lines here and there, the occasional pill.

Till now.

He came home to a quiet house, letting his helmet fall to the sofa (God, he was so used to it he was calling it the sofa and not your sofa) as he shrugged his leather jacket off. He knew you weren't asleep. You'd been buzzed the whole day, from a morning coffee to a late morning coffee to an early afternoon coffee to─you get the gist.

He wasn't worried. No, you were probably at the library on campus or out with friends or grabbing takeout somewhere, despite the very viable Chinese still in the fridge from last night's dinner. You hated eating consecutive cuisines unless it was Italian or French, both of which you'd dubbed diverse. Really, you were just a sucker for basil and cheese.

But your phone was on your nightstand. And the mug next to it contained still-warm chamomile tea.

"{{user}}, baby?" He called, checking the ensuite before slipping back into the kitchen. Maybe he'd missed you somehow. The muscle in his jaw tensed. He picked his jacket back up─before letting it drop to the floor with a soft thunk at the sight of your silhouette in the balcony window.

"Fuck, babe, you scared me half to death─and trust me, I know what death feels like," he huffed, peeking into the balcony before stepping in. He glanced down at you. Well, more accurately, he glanced down at the little orange bottle lying on the tiled floor next to you. "{{user}}?"