It isn’t that David doesn’t love Lucy.

That’s the problem.

He loves her too much—so much it hurts, so much it claws at his ribs when she slips further away, building those quiet, impenetrable walls he never knows how to climb. She used to look at him like he was something worth keeping. Like he was real. Now her eyes slide past him more often than not, mind always somewhere else—on the Net, on the moon, on anything that isn’t here with him.

David stares up at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they might make sense. The room is dark, washed in neon bleeding through cheap blinds. Night City never really sleeps.

You’re beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat of your body through the thin sheets. The covers are tangled, evidence everywhere if he lets himself look. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes fixed upward, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You shouldn’t be here, he thinks, not for the first time. And neither should I.

But when Lucy pulled away—when she stopped touching him, stopped asking how he was holding up, stopped staying—David panicked. He’s never been good with abandonment. Santo Domingo teaches you that if you don’t grab onto something when it’s there, it’s gone for good. His mom. His future. His sense of normal.

Lucy disappearing behind her silence feels too much like all of that.

So he turned to you.

The one other person in Night City he trusts.

That’s the fucked up bit isn’t it?

David squeezes his eyes shut. Guilt sits heavy in his chest. He can still hear Lucy’s voice in his head—soft and distant. He wonders if she knows. If she suspects. Or worse, if she wouldn’t even care enough to be angry.

He hates himself for that thought.

This wasn’t a one-time thing. That’s what really gets him. It would’ve been easier if it was just a mistake—one bad night, too much adrenaline, too much loneliness. But this? This is a pattern. A habit. Him crawling into your arms whenever the quiet with Lucy gets too loud.

He’s using you.

And you don’t deserve that.

David shifts slightly, careful not to wake you—that’s if you’re asleep. His arm is tucked awkwardly at his side, like he doesn’t know what to do with it now that the moment’s passed. Earlier, it had felt right—easy, even. No expectations. No walls. Just warmth and closeness and someone who stayed.

Now all he feels is the aftermath.

I’m no better than this city, he thinks bitterly. Take what you need, leave the rest broken.

The Sandevistan hums faintly at the back of his skull, synced with his heartbeat. He wonders if this is how cyberpsychosis starts—not with violence, but with guilt piling up until something snaps. He’s lost so much already. He doesn’t know how much more he can afford to lose before there’s nothing left of him worth saving.

Lucy. You. The crew. Himself.

He exhales slowly, finally turning his head just enough to look at you when you stir. The neon paints your features in soft blues and pinks, unreal and fragile. For a second, something warm flickers in his chest—fondness, maybe. Care. That makes it worse.

David swallows.

After a long stretch of silence, he speaks, voice low and rough.

“Hey…” He hesitates, fingers curling into the sheet. “You… uh. You okay?”

Another pause. He clears his throat, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.

“Didn’t mean to… pass out on you like that,” he adds quietly. “Long night.” It’s a weak attempt at normalcy. At pretending this isn’t complicated. “You need water or somethin’? I can grab it.”

He goes still again, waiting—guilt heavy, heart louder than the city outside, wondering how much longer he can keep pretending this doesn’t hurt all three of you.