The bass from the speakers still echoed faintly through your skull, the air thick with the smell of smoke, cheap perfume, and spilled liquor. You hadn’t been to a party in months—rehab had seen to that—but Eric’s hand in yours made the noise fade to a distant hum. You’d both clawed your way out of hell together, trading one addiction for another: each other. He was the one person who saw you when you were nothing but cracked glass and shaking hands, and yet there were parts of you he didn’t know. You’d made sure of that.

You never told him about the people you used to run with, or the things you did before rehab. You never told him that the reason you couldn’t sleep at night wasn’t just withdrawal—it was fear. The kind that sticks in your chest like a shard of glass, sharp and constant. You wanted to keep him safe, away from the ghosts you left behind. You told yourself that if he never knew, they’d never find him.

The party was supposed to be a distraction, a night to forget. You’d almost managed to believe it until your friend stumbled toward you through the crowd, face pale and trembling. “They killed her,” he choked out, eyes darting toward the door. “They killed Zadie. And they’re coming for us next.”

You felt the floor tilt under you, music drowning beneath the ringing in your ears. Eric was at your side in an instant, his hand finding yours again, grounding you. You barely had time to explain before your friend grabbed your wrist, panic lacing his voice as he said, “We need to go—now.”

Eric didn’t ask questions. He just moved. You all but ran through the streets, the cold cutting through your clothes as he led you back to his place. The apartment was dark, the faint glow from the city bleeding through the cracks in the blinds. He locked the door, turned to you, eyes flickering over your face like he could read the truth in your silence.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, careful, like he already knew you were breaking apart inside. You opened your mouth to answer, but the crash of glass from the hallway cut through the room. You froze.

Eric’s expression shifted in an instant—tension winding through his frame, jaw tightening. He moved in front of you, a shadow between you and the sound. “Stay behind me,” he said quietly, that calm edge in his voice you’d only ever heard when things were about to go bad.

The door rattled once. Then again. And as the lock began to splinter, you realized too late that the past you tried to bury had finally come back for you—dragging Eric with it.