Twenty‑one missed calls.

Not one. Not two. Not three. Not four. Not—you get the picture.

So why?

Why the hell hasn’t my partner—my partner—answered a single one? Has St. Patrick’s all‑knowing, rain‑soaked ballsack decided I’m suddenly unworthy of love or basic human decency?

Because that’s what it feels like.

Like I’m some forgotten, unwanted kid clinging to a parent’s leg, begging for a scrap of attention.

God. I really hope they don’t see me like that.

My foot slams the brake the moment Gibsie’s fat bastard of a cat comes into view. Brian waddles across the road like he’s the punchline to one of Gibsie’s shite jokes.

“Move it, you furry speed bump,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

Brian stops. Looks at me. Judging me—I swear to God—and then continues at the pace of continental drift, tail flicking like he owns the bloody town. I seriously consider flooring it. I don’t—but I think about it. My foot hovers just a second too long, and maybe the lazy sack of fur senses death breathing down his spine because he finally scurries off.

About bloody time.

I gun it.

Through the town centre. Past that hideous fountain. Past someone who might have been Martha Kelly—I don’t slow down to check—and straight onto Haregrow Street. My chest tightens the second I see it.

Their house.

Dark windows. Curtains drawn. No movement.

Dread crawls up my throat and lodges there. My hands clamp around the steering wheel until my knuckles burn.

Do I really want to know?

Yeah. Yeah, asshole. You do.

Am I going to like it?

Not a fucking chance.

I kill the engine and bolt out of the car. My legs feel hollow, weak, but I sprint anyway. I knock once. Then again.

Nothing.

Right. Plan B.

I grab the eaves, plant my foot on the windowsill, and drag myself up onto the roof—shingles, scraped skin, and poor life choices. Then I drop into their room with all the grace of a wrecking ball. The floor rattles beneath me.

The smell hits first.

Chloroform.

Their meds.

Okay. Not that alarming.

And then I see them.

Slumped against the bed. Pale. Shaking.

Relapsing.

“Fuck,” I breathe, stumbling forward. “{{user}}… baby…”

No real response. Just a flicker behind their eyes, like the lights are still on but no one’s answering the door.

I drop to the floor beside them, hands hovering uselessly. I don’t know where it hurts. I don’t know if touching them will help or make it worse—or break something in me I won’t get back.

“Why didn’t you call me?” My voice cracks. “Why didn’t you let me help?”

Their blink is slow, heavy. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You think I haven’t?” I whisper. “You think this scares me more than not knowing where you were? What you were doing?”

“I didn’t want to ruin you,” they murmur.

“You already did,” I say, voice shaking. “And I’m still here. Aren’t I?”

They turn their face away. Shame settles into their features like a bruise.

“You keep breaking me,” I add, softer now, wrecked, “and I keep coming back. That has to mean something.”

Silence.

Then they cry—quiet, fractured sobs like they’re afraid of taking up space.

I pull them into my arms.

It hurts.

God, it hurts so bad.

But I hold them anyway.

Because love isn’t clean. It’s messy. It’s relapse and fear and broken promises. It’s choosing to rebuild someone even when you’re shattered in the process.

Over and over again.

Until maybe— just maybe—

One day…

They stay whole.