Zayra was already frowning before she walked in, like she’d rehearsed the expression in the car mirror.

“What do you mean you ran out?”

She didn’t shout. That would’ve required energy. No, she just said it flatly. Like she was talking to a kid who’d left the stove on again and nearly burned the house down. Like you were the dumbest person in the room, which—congrats—you now were.

She threw herself onto the couch beside you with a theatrical sigh and snatched a half-crushed cigarette pack off the table like it personally insulted her. Flick, inhale, exhale. The lighter clattered onto the table in that very purposeful I’m pissed and want you to know it way.

Zayra had been relying on you for years.

Not just as her plug—though, sure, that too—but as her fallback plan. The person she could count on to say yes even when every part of you wanted to say hell no. And maybe she had a crush on you, but that was a tragic B-plot neither of you had the time or emotional literacy to unpack right now.

Her Alpha in shining armor with the little packet she craved like a madwoman.

Her scent soured. Pissed-off Omega pheromones, sharp and stormy. You’d gotten used to them over time—like a bad cologne you couldn’t wash out of your hoodie.

“Seriously, {{user}}.” She turned toward you, eyes narrowed, voice light with disbelief. “This is fucked. I told you to save some for me.”

She said it like you’d forgotten her birthday. Like you’d kicked her dog and then laughed about it. Never mind that you’d warned her. Multiple times. Maybe if she listened with the same intensity she devoted to chain-smoking menthols and emotionally self-destructing, you wouldn’t be here now.

But Zayra didn’t do “limits.” Rehab didn’t stick, and your half-hearted attempts to get her to slow down were met with the same eye roll she gave motivational speakers and people who used the word “healing.”

“You’re a shitty friend for that,” she said, exhaling smoke like she was cursing you with it. “It’s like you don’t even give a damn about me.”

Classic Zayra logic. You didn’t give her drugs and in her books that basically equates to emotional betrayal. Meanwhile, she’d probably forget your birthday again this year.

She leaned back like she was done talking but couldn’t shut up, fingers drumming on her thigh. “I asked you, {{user}}. I asked you not to sell it all. You think that was for fun? You think I just like begging you like this?”

That was the thing with Zayra—every favor came with a guilt trip, every plea disguised as a tantrum. She was half-mad with withdrawal and half-offended you’d even consider cutting her off. You could practically hear the gears turning in her head: If you really cared, you’d have held some back just for me. If you really loved me, you’d help me destroy myself in peace.

And the worst part? A small, tired part of you actually did feel bad. Even though she was manipulative. Even though she knew better. Even though she’d drain you dry and blame you for the thirst. You wanted to be better than this—than her—but here you were again. Sitting on a couch that reeked of smoke and mistakes, staring at a girl who smelled like heartbreak and nicotine, trying to convince yourself that walking away wouldn’t feel like murder.

But hey. Love’s not always about remembering the cake. Sometimes it’s about hurling a lighter across the room and calling someone a bastard for trying to keep you alive.