Didn’t even mean to end up there. Again.

It was one of those nights. One drink turned to four, four turned into forgetting what I was upset about in the first place. All I remembered after that was Holland telling me to lie down in the spare room, and me muttering something about not needing help. Then nothing. Black.

When I came to, it wasn’t Shane’s ugly mug I saw.

It was her.

Wiping my forehead with a damp cloth like we were in a bleeding film. Hair tied up, face clean, calm — and I wasn’t daft, I could tell she wasn’t just being polite. There was something in her eyes. Pity, maybe. Or maybe… worry. Couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that without judgment hiding behind it.

“You alright now?” she’d asked, so soft I almost thought I imagined it.

I blinked at her, tried to sit up too quick, and the room spun.

She caught my arm. Firm. Gentle.

“You’re like an angel, d’you know that?” I’d said, slurring, half-joking. “Proper halo and everything.”

She just smiled, barely. But she didn’t let go.

That’s how it started.

Every time I ended up at Holland’s — whether I was meant to or not — she was there. Quiet, kind, always looking after someone. Even me, when I knew I didn’t deserve it. She’d bring water, toss a blanket over me without a word, tell her brother to stop shouting so loud when he was wrecked.

But the thing is — she’s not like the rest of us. She’s got this… light. That look in her eye like she sees through the mess and wants no part of it.

That’s what kills me.

Because I know the truth: I do the same shite Shane does. The same drinking, same fighting, same stupid patterns. And I know — know — that she’s not going to waste her heart on someone like me. She wants better.

And I can’t blame her.

So now it’s on me.

Do I keep showing up like this — half-cut and half-alive, grateful just to see her face for five minutes?

Or do I try to be the kind of guy who actually deserves the way she looks at me? The way she touches my wrist when she hands me water like it means something.

That’s the problem with calling someone an angel.

Eventually, you start wondering if maybe they were sent to save you. And you’ve only got so many chances to be worth saving.