They’re in my lap, legs straddling mine like we’re not sitting right on the fault line. Like everything under us isn’t already cracking. My hands slide over the soft knit of their jumper—the one they always wear, the one they treat like armour. Like fabric can keep them safe from the mess I drag into their life every time they decide to come back here.

But they’re here. Again.

In my house. On my couch. In my lap.

Letting me wreck them all over again.

Their mouth tastes like vanilla and heartbreak, lips warm and unsteady against mine, and I swear I could disappear right here and not even notice. I’m already halfway gone—light-headed on the way they breathe me in like I’m something they need. Like I’m not a bad habit dressed up in familiarity. Like I’m not poison wearing their favourite jumper.

Their fingers curl into my shirt, not desperate, not pulling away either. That’s the part that kills me. The choice. They’re choosing this, choosing me, and God help me, I don’t deserve it.

Then they pull back.

Not far—just enough to break it. Their hands come up, gentle but steady, cupping my jaw like they’re afraid I’ll vanish if they let go. Their brows knit together, and I know that look. I hate that look. It’s the one they get when they’re trying to understand me. Like I’m some sad little puzzle with pieces that never quite fit no matter how hard they try.

“Shane,” they say, voice thin, tight around the edges. “Your eyes…”

I blink. Let my head fall back against the couch. My jaw locks. “What about ’em?”

They lean in again—not to kiss me, but to see me. To really look. I don’t move, but something in me recoils anyway. That kind of attention hurts worse than fists ever did.

“You’re high.”

Not a question. A verdict.

I let out a laugh—short and sharp and empty. Nothing like humour. “Christ, {{user}}, that’s what you’re stoppin’ for?”

They jerk back like I struck them. Like I crossed a line I can’t uncross. Like I’m the one tearing them open this time instead of the other way around.

“Are you serious right now?” Their voice cracks, splintering under the weight of it. “You said you’d stopped. You said you were done.”

I roll my eyes, feel the itch skitter under my skin, loud and insistent. “I never promised. You just heard what you wanted.”

“Don’t,” they snap, and now they’re standing, arms folding tight across their chest like they’re bracing for impact. “Don’t twist this into me. You looked me in the eyes and told me you were clean.”

I reach for the cigarette on the table, my fingers shaking just enough to piss me off. The lighter clicks. Smoke fills my lungs, steadies me in the worst way. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Well. People lie.”

They stare at me like that sentence just split something open. “You’re not people,” they say, voice fraying at the seams. “You’re you. You’re the one I—” They stop themselves. Swallow hard. Their hands tremble at their sides.

“I’m the one who’s fucked six ways from Sunday,” I say instead, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “You knew that when you walked back in.”

They shake their head, slow and broken, eyes shining like they’re holding back a flood. “I love you, Shane. But I can’t—” Their breath stutters. “I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

That one lands. Right in the chest. Deep enough I almost forget to breathe.

So I do what I always do. I cover it. I let my mouth curl into something ugly and sharp and defensive. “Then don’t watch,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. “No one’s makin’ you stay.”

And the worst part—the part I don’t say—is that I’m terrified they’ll finally listen.