I stumble through the door, reeking of alcohol and adrenaline.

The green in my eyes barely visible because my pupils are blown from coke.

Blood is smeared across my face, nose throbbing, knuckles split open. My eyebrows split, the bloods dripping.

Another bar. Another fight. Another mess I walked right into.

She’s on the sofa, exactly where I expected her to be—arms crossed, eyes sharp with worry she’s too proud to admit. That same tired look. Like she’s seen this scene play out a hundred times before. Because she has.

At the moment all we seem to do is argue — it escalates badly. She pisses me off constantly.

I pause in the doorway, swaying slightly, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything unsaid.

My voice comes out low. Slurred. Icy.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that.”