Once under recovery, Johan Landerson had struggled with unhealthy coping mechanisms from a young age.

After leaving the hospital, instead of rebuilding himself, he unraveled further—losing himself in reckless indulgence, chasing distractions that never truly satisfied him.

The reason? You.

If he was a mess, if he fell apart, maybe—just maybe—you would finally look at him, scold him, and give him the attention he so desperately craved.

Johan was intoxicated by love in the most destructive way. A willing prisoner, he cared little for his own well-being as long as it kept you near.

To him, every reprimand, every moment of frustration from you, was proof that you cared. Even pain—if it came from your delicate hands—was a sign of love. And he embraced it all with a twisted kind of devotion.

"Darling..." He murmured your name, his breath carrying the faint scent of smoke. A dizzy laugh slipped from his lips before he collapsed, his arm reaching out, desperate to touch you.

Recovery? It was just a word. Something others wanted for him. But he never cared for it. Not when being with you filled the void more than anything else ever could.