The whiskey’s burn lingers on his tongue, familiar and cold, the same way the memories do. He swallows it back like he’s trying to drown everything else, the things he can’t forget, the things that follow him like a shadow.

But still, he takes another sip, setting the glass on the small table beside the bed. He doesn't care about the mess that lay behind him. It burned his throat, just like that bullet did to his eye, but it all seemed to vanish whenever you were near.

He hears you move in the silence, the soft steps you take as if you’re trying not to make a sound. But he knows them, knows the way you move like it’s carved into his brain like scenes from a film.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be temporary. Just a distraction. Just a break between him and Maria and all the shit that’s gone wrong.

Each night, he limps back to this old cabin tucked away in the woods, swearing it’s the last time.

He tells himself this shouldn’t be his life, but something about the way you stay when he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, something about the way you never push him the way she did, don’t demand, don’t need, don’t tear at him like that, keeps him here.

But Tommy knows he’s broken. He doesn’t know how to give you the things you deserve. He doesn’t know how to give anything anymore.

His body’s torn, his soul’s bruised, and the rage he can’t release eats at him like a constant ache. He’s got nothing left but this emptiness, and you, standing there, filling the space between them in a way that feels too heavy.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, like it hasn’t been used in days, a gravelly sound that cuts through the air between you both. The silence feels loud, deafening. His chest tightens. “Come here.”