He had lived through it a thousand times before. The ever-present fear slithering down his spine, guilt clawing at the walls of his chest, death circling like a vulture. Death. Again and again. Creeping in from all sides—merciless, bloodstained, patient.

And this time was no different. He’d lost sight of her for mere minutes— a handful of seconds during the hunt, a moment’s lapse in focus— and whatever nightmare they had been tracking sank its icy hands into her.

She came out of it bruised, barely bleeding. And yet as they drove back to the motel in a silence so thick it might’ve drowned them both, she tried—gently, clumsily—to joke. Fragments of nonsense tossed into the void, as if words could plug the flood of thoughts rushing through his head— thoughts that had haunted him for years, dragging him further down into a place where no light could reach, where no one could follow.

Back in the room, he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need to. The ritual was well-worn, nearly sacred in its predictability. He sank into the creaking wooden chair, wrapped his calloused fingers around a half-full bottle of whiskey, and drank—straight from the neck. No glass. No pause.

Each swallow seared its way down his throat, a baptism of fire meant to burn away every monstrous possibility. What if he hadn’t turned at the right time. What if she hadn’t screamed loud enough? What if she’d never met him? What if—God, what if—she had actually died?

And then came the guilt— familiar, grotesque, ravenous. It devoured him whole, cracked his bones and spat out what was left: a hollow echo of a man who’d brought nothing but blood and ruin to every soul that had ever dared to love him.

Why would she be any different? She should have been.

Because he wanted her to be. Desperately, pathetically. He wanted her safe. Sheltered. His. He wanted to guard her from the world, to stand between her and every shadow it could throw. She was his bright spot in a landscape of ash— his first instinct, his last line of defense.

She was a hunter. She knew how to fight. But that never dulled the blade of his need to protect her. If anything, it made it worse.

And still, he had failed.

Just as he had always failed. His father, his brother, Bobby. Everyone who had ever meant something. One by one. There was only one way he knew how to keep breathing. He drank.

She sat across from him now, silent, watchful, eyes shaded beneath the sweep of dark lashes. Her hands rested lightly on the tabletop, nervous fingers twitching— as if she longed to reach for him, but knew better than to steal the distance he needed.

She knew. She always knew that he drank. All the time. Without pause, without thought. After hunts, before them, sometimes. Beer, whiskey, bourbon. Morning, noon, and night. To numb the ache. To mute the noise. To make it through. And it broke her over and over again.