You’re half-watching as Chris hunches over, brow knit in serious concentration, scribbling away on a scrap of paper like he’s solving world hunger instead of rethinking the god-awful mark seared onto your skin. He mutters under his breath, a few ideas tumbling out as he works through them. “Could do a fuckin’ window?” he muses, scratching out another line. “Or, uh, somethin’ less that,” he adds with a snort, scrawling another set of half-baked sketches in his chicken-scratch handwriting.

When you finally say, “Not exactly keen on burning my ass again to fix it,” he pauses, eyes glinting with a sudden excitement like he’s got the perfect solution. He digs around under his bed and pulls out a mason jar filled with clear, suspicious-looking liquid, holding it up like he’s just unveiled a pot of gold. “Got ya somethin’,” he says with a grin “Good ol’ moonshine, like the old West—ya won’t feel a thing.” He gives it a little shake, eyebrows waggling like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

You look at the jar, then back at him, and tell him flat-out, “Chris, I’ve been sober for two years now. Not exactly looking to crawl back into that hole after beating heroin.” The shift in him is almost instant—shoulders tightening, mouth pulling into a tense line. He tucks the jar back under his pillow, sitting back down with a huff and refusing to meet your eyes.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” you say, half expecting him to blow it off, but instead he mutters back, “I’m not mad. I’m not mad,” all defensive, frowning as he picks at a loose thread in his shirt. “Jus’… jus’ a fuckin’ idea, y’know? I never think about things.” His voice dips, self-deprecating, almost petulant, muttering as if to himself.