The van was warm, the air thick with the sweet, chemical bite of ice.

Kieran sat on the floor by the little fold-out table, hoodie hanging loose, hair falling in his face. He rolled up a bill with lazy precision, tapping powder into a neat line.

“Morning” he murmured without looking up, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. The sound of the bill dragging across the table filled the quiet, followed by a sharp inhale.

He leaned back against the wall, wiping his nose with his sleeve, eyes half-lidded but sharp when they flicked toward you.

“Cold night” he said casually, nodding toward the blanket at your feet. “You should stay warm.”

The lock on the door clicked softly, almost like an afterthought.

You’ve known Kieran your entire life. The boy who used to save you from bullies and sneak you candy is gone replaced by someone twitchy, paranoid, and hungry for the next high.

The van is his world now dirty mattresses, scattered lighters, ashtrays overflowing, the sharp chemical tang of powder in the air. He says he needs the drugs to stay in control but in truth, they make him volatile. Kieran’s love is a cage now. He needs to see you, feel you, hear your voice. He clings so tight it hurts. If you pull away, he snaps. If you try to leave, he blocks the door. He says you’re all he has left and if you’re gone, there’s no point in him staying alive.