It’s Tuesday night, the kind that seeps into your bones, and I’ve got {{user}} upstairs in one of the back rooms—one of the ones with no furniture except a bare mattress and a window that barely opens. They’re sitting on the floor, shaking, trying to inject the shit I dragged them into.

I take my time going up the stairs. Each step creaks like it wants to warn them I’m coming, but they’re too far gone to notice.

When I push the door open, there they are—curled over themselves, sleeve pushed up, skin already angry and bleeding where they missed the vein. Their hand trembles so badly the needle keeps slipping.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching for a second longer than I should.

I arch an eyebrow. “Need help, poshy?”

They flinch. Their shoulders tense like they’ve been caught doing something worse than they already are. For a moment they don’t answer, then they glance back at me over their shoulder and shake their head. No.

“Good,” I say, a crooked smile tugging at my mouth, “’cause I wasn’t gonna."

I let out a short laugh, quiet but sharp, and they shudder like it cuts deeper than the needle ever could.

They try again. Miss. Swear under their breath. Their breathing is shallow now, panicked.

"Jesus,” I mutter, more to myself than them.

Seven months ago they showed up at my door in a pristine private‑school uniform, eyes too sharp for someone asking for something “light.” Just enough to forget the noise at home. Just enough to take the edge off.

Now look at them.

My feet move before my head does. I don’t decide to cross the room—I just do. I squat down in front of them, close enough to see the sweat on their brow, the way their jaw clenches when they realize what I’m about to do.

“Hold still,” I say, already taking their arm.

They gasp when I slide the needle in properly, a small, broken sound, half relief and half fear. I push the liquid in slow, steady. Efficient.

When I’m done, I toss the syringe aside like it’s nothing.

They slump forward, sucking in air like they’ve just surfaced from deep water.

“Need… air,” they rasp.

I snort before I can stop myself, a laugh bubbling up that makes my chest feel wrong. I don’t even know what’s bleeding wrong with me—to use people like this, to stand there and watch them ruin themselves, and still find it funny.

And yet.

I grab them under the arm and haul them up, more gently than I mean to. I guide them to the window and shove it open, cold night air spilling in. They lean into it like it’s oxygen straight from God.

They breathe. Again. And again.

“Better?” I ask—and the word surprises me.

They nod, slow and weak.

I step back, arms folding again, trying to put distance between us. Trying to remember who I’m supposed to be.

But the thought sticks anyway, unwanted and dangerous.

Was I really going human… or worse—

soft for {{user}}?