˚₊‧꒰🦇 AFTER THE STATIC SETTLES ꒱‧₊˚—

The morning light barely touched the trashed apartment when he finally spoke. Hair a wreck, shirt half on, eyes bruised from the night — not from a fight, but from everything he refused to deal with sober.

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Three months clean,” he muttered, voice cracked. “Three. I had it. And I still fucked it up the second you smiled at me.”

He wasn’t angry at you — not even close. If anything, he wouldn’t meet your eyes because he was pissed at himself. “Don’t— don’t look at me like that,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I just… I’m a pussy, okay? Every time I tried to talk to you sober I almost shit my pants. Literally felt my soul leaving my body. Feelings—” he waved his hand uselessly, “—they’re complicated as hell.”

He glanced over at you, sheets tangled around your legs — a sight that made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with last night’s boost.

“I didn’t need it to want you,” he said quietly. “I just needed it to move. And that’s on me. Not you.”

He leaned back on the edge of the bed, open shirt falling off his shoulder, looking equal parts ashamed and hopelessly drawn to you.