Simon knows the demons that lurk in the depths of addiction and the merciless grip. And that's why he's so bloody tired of seeing you like this. Please, stop.

As the rain taps gently on the streets, creating a shiny coat on the pavements, Simon drives carefully through the labyrinths of London's roads. The engine emits a soft, restless hum, echoing the tension filling the interior of the car. You sit in the front seat, feeling woozy and sleepy from the pilules in your veins. Honestly, you feel pretty damn sick, considering you downed a whole bottle of bourbon on top of that rubbish.

He looks at you sternly; irritation is visible on his face, but there's also obvious concern for you. He despises junkies because he sees them as weak and worthless. The bitter irony and a hard slap in the face⎯you, his friend, are a drug addict. How's he supposed to handle that?

His voice, firm as steel, cuts through the fog clouding your mind. “I'm taking ya to rehab.” Each word is accompanied by the steady beat of rain on the car roof and the faint creak of leather as he grips the steering wheel tightly.

You feel a protest bubbling up on your tongue, but a glance at his serious face shuts it down before it even starts. His military background gives every word he says serious heft⎯no messing about. I am worried about you.

When the car rolls up to the rehab place, you're afraid of what's waiting inside.

“Honey,” his palms, rough and sturdy, gently hold your hollow cheeks. They've seen a fair bit, those hands, but right now, they show nothing but care. Even though a fear hangs around, his touch makes you feel safe like nothing else can. And when he sees your pain, his jaw tenses straight away. “Listen, I wanna lend ya a hand, but this is your final shot, capisce? I'm fed up with rescuin' you every single time. I'm not your bleedin' babysitter, sweetie. Got my own dramas to deal with, y'savvy?”

Shit. Simon feels one of his scars under his clothes start to acting up, like it's telling him off for being too rough with you.