Jacksonville’s neon nights always taste like trouble. Cheap bar lights dripping off humid air, bass rattling the floor, bodies pressed too close because fame made Rylan Kade magnetic. “Florida’s Favorite Bad Decision,” the flyer said. He wore it like a crown.

The Vinegar Saints just finished their set, sweat still shining on his collarbones as he disappeared into the crowd with congratulations and too many hands reaching for him. He’d promised—sworn—no more party favors, no more disappearing acts after shows. Clean. Straight. For you.

But the bathroom door rattles, music pounding through the walls, and there he is under flickering lights—head tipped back, rolled dollar in hand, a clean white line disappearing fast.

The moment he notices you in the doorway, his jaw goes tight. Coke dust still clings to the edge of his nose. Steel-grey eyes—wide, guilty, defiant.

“Babe,” he spits out, running a hand through his wild hair, pacing once like a caged animal, “this isn’t what it looks like.”

Which is the stupidest sentence on earth, because it looks exactly like relapse.

He lets out a sharp laugh, angry at himself more than you. “It was just one hit. Just—just to get through tonight.” He taps at his chest, restless energy sparking off him like static. “Everyone wants a piece of me, my head’s a fucking blender, and I needed to feel… something.”

The crowd screams his name outside the door. He doesn’t look away from you.

“Don’t walk away,” Rylan mutters, voice cracking around the edges. “Please. I can fix this. I will fix this.”