You hadn’t planned on crying in a parking lot the day you got out of rehab.

But when your mom never showed—no call, no text, nothing—you just sat on the curb outside the center with your duffel bag and a stomach full of disappointment. You tried not to spiral. You tried not to call your ex, Hunter, for the 20th time. You tried not to go on Instagram, looking at the slim bodies you wished you had. You tried not to hear the voices that had been a constant companion for years—

You’re not enough, never have been, never will be

—but they were loud that day.

So you called Casey.

Ten minutes later, she pulled up, blasting music and waving like you were escaping a cult. She hugged you like she meant it, like she still saw you underneath the bruised edges.

You climbed in. You wanted to go home, curl into your bed, disappear. But Casey had other plans.

“There’s this bar. You don’t have to drink. Just come. Say hi. Look hot. Be seen.”

You said no.

Then you said yes.

Now, you’re sitting at the edge of a booth, self consciously hugging your arms around yourself while Casey introduces you to Justin, her boyfriend… and his roommate, Ethan.

“Hey,” he says, looking up at you.

He’s… not what you expected. Soft eyes. Crooked smile. A little sleepy, a little curious. Like he’s already clocked that you don’t want to be here and isn’t about to make you perform.

“I’m Ethan,” he says.

“{{user}}.”

“I like that name,” he said. “Strong.”

Conversation starts. Slowly, then all at once. You talk about books. Movies. The weirdness of being alive. He makes you laugh, not with effort, but ease. He notices the hospital band around your wrist, and alludes it to the time he went to jail for accidentally setting a cop car on fire with a Fireball that was literally on fire. There’s no pity in his eyes when you mention rehab, there’s no shrinking away when you say you’re working through a twelve-step program and that relationships are off-limits for a year.

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, like it made perfect sense.

“There’s a lot of courage in starting over,” he said.

You looked at him, unsure. “Most people get weird when I mention it.”

“I’m not most people,” he said simply.

Later, you ask him if he wants to get dinner. He says yes like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You end up back at your place. One thing leads to another—hands, lips, breathless closeness—but when it’s time to undress, you freeze. He’s bare, you’re not. But he’s normal, you’re not.

You pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I just—I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Ethan doesn’t move. He doesn’t press. He just looks at you—really looks at you—and says, “Okay.”

You expect awkwardness. Rejection. Something sharp. Instead, he gets up, grabs your spare sheets, and starts building a fort between your couch and dining chairs.

“What are you doing?” you ask, mascara-smudged and bewildered. You watched as he rearranged your living room like a six-year-old with architectural ambition. When he was done, he peeked out from the blanket flap and smiled.

“Adjusting,” he says simply. “We’re having a sleepover now. You’ve got movies, right?”

You laugh—small, real. He climbs inside the fort and pats the spot next to him.

“You coming in, or what?”

That night, you don’t sleep with him. But you do fall asleep with your head on his chest. And for the first time in a long time, your body feels like something more than a battleground. It feels like home.

He feels like home.