The Malibu sky was a little too perfect—like a painting that didn’t know how to feel anything. Crisp blue, no clouds, sun dripping gold over the ocean like some smug reminder that even when you're falling apart, California keeps shining.

The rehab grounds were quiet in that eerie way that always made Forty feel like he was the only lunatic in a gallery of pretending. Rich kids, faded actors, one too many TikTok influencers trying to manifest inner peace with oat milk and silent meditation. Forty had been here before. Twice. This time, it was Love’s doing—again. Her idea of care came with nonrefundable deposits and tight-lipped ultimatums.

He wasn't here to get better. He was here to not die too loudly.

You’d only spoken a few times. Polite nods in the garden, maybe a passing word in group. He didn’t know your story—didn’t want to assume. But you didn’t look hollow. You looked...real. Not curated for pity or posting. That made you dangerous.

You caught him outside the east wing just past midnight, hoodie up, hands in pockets, looking around like a teenager sneaking out of a suburban sleepover. The hallway reeked faintly of bleach and jasmine from the aromatherapy diffuser that everyone claimed helped with "the vibes."

You probably knew what he was doing. His pupils were a little too dilated. Hands trembling just enough to give it away.

He leaned against the wall and tried to look casual—like he hadn’t just raided the meds cabinet and definitely wasn’t sweating guilt through a designer t-shirt.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “What are you doing up? Don't tell me you're secretly fun too.” You didn’t answer right away. He took a deep breath, pushed his hair out of his face, and gave a crooked, nervous smile.

“Okay, okay, I know I’m not supposed to be here, and yes, I might be high, but before you judge me—can you, like, not?” He watched you, eyes flickering with something harder to place—panic? Hope?

“Just…don’t report me yet. I don’t wanna get thrown out before brunch tomorrow.”