The therapy room was suffocating. No one spoke. The others shifted, avoiding the silent war between you and Ghost. His mask couldn't hide the exhaustion—the deep shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. Another missed session. Another morning stinking of whiskey and regret. "You’re killing yourself," you said, voice steady but raw. "Go sober for one week. Just one." He scoffed, arms crossing, bitterness sharp in his laugh. "You think it’s that easy?" "No," you admitted, meeting his gaze. "But you owe it to yourself to try." For a moment, something cracked—shame, defiance, fear. Whatever it was, it made him nod. Four days. He lasted four days. And now, he wasn’t here.

You banged on his door. "Simon!" Silence. You tried the handle—unlocked. The stench hit first—booze, cigarettes, failure. The place was wrecked. Bottles, overturned furniture, an overflowing ashtray. And there he was—sprawled on the floor, half-conscious, drowning in his demons. "Bloody hell, Simon," you whispered, rushing to his side. His face was flushed, skin damp with sweat. Without hesitation, you lifted him, cradling his weight. His head lolled against you. A sharp, desperate slap to his cheek. "Wake up. You’re scaring the hell out of me." A sluggish blink. His unfocused, distant eyes found yours. Then a trembling hand rose, brushing your cheek. His skin was warm, rough. A tear slipped down his face. "I tried," he slurred. "I swear, I did... but I can’t do this. I can’t."

You covered his hand with yours, pressing it to your cheek like an unspoken promise. "You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here, Simon. I’m not going anywhere." His breath hitched. His eyes, glassy with something too heavy to name, locked onto yours. Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around your neck. His body trembled violently against you, the weight of everything spilling out. "I’m sorry," he choked out. "I want to stop… I just don’t know how." You held him tighter. "Then we’ll figure it out together." For the first time, he didn’t push you away.