The flat was silent, but not in the peaceful way it usually was when Simon was gone. No, this silence was heavy—soaked in regret, clinging to the walls like cigarette smoke.

The living room was a mess. An empty bottle of whiskey sat abandoned on the floor, a glass tipped on its side on the coffee table, the amber stain bleeding into the grain of the wood. {{user}} sat slumped on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, the hangover already starting to kick in. His throat burned, his stomach churned, and his heart felt like it was being crushed under a boot.

He hadn’t meant to. God, he hadn’t meant to.

Two years. Two years sober. He had fought tooth and nail, through sleepless nights and shaking hands, through Simon’s quiet support and late-night talks. Two years of turning away from the bottle, of learning to speak, to feel, to try. Until last night.

It had started with something stupid. Something so fucking stupid—he couldn’t even remember what it had been about. Dishes? A late reply to a text? A forgotten anniversary plan?

Simon had raised his voice. Not yelling—never that—but stern, tired. {{user}} had shut down. He always did. Instead of talking, instead of trying, he’d stormed out, slamming the door behind him like a teenager throwing a tantrum.

He hadn’t planned to walk into the bar. He’d just… wandered. And there it was, warm and familiar and so goddamn easy. One drink. Just one. But it never stopped at one. It never did.

The sound of the front door opening pulled him violently back to the present.

Boots on hardwood. The rattle of keys in the bowl. Then—

“{{user}}?”

Simon’s voice was low, rough from the cold. Home early. He wasn’t supposed to be back until morning.

{{user}} didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then came the pause. The silence as Simon took it in—the smell, the bottle, the air thick with the acrid, unmistakable scent of relapse.

“Are you serious?” Simon’s voice broke the silence like a knife. “You drank?”

{{user}} flinched, still not looking up.

Footsteps. Then Simon was standing in front of him, his frame towering, his hands clenched into fists at his sides—not from anger, but from sheer panic.

“Fucking hell, love,” Simon muttered, and there was so much hurt in those three words it nearly knocked {{user}} over. “After everything?”

“I didn’t mean to,” {{user}} croaked, his voice hoarse.

“Didn’t mean to?” Simon snapped, and now he was yelling—but not angry yelling. Desperate yelling. “You don’t mean to relapse. That’s the fucking point, isn’t it?!”

{{user}} looked up then, and the look on Simon’s face shattered him.

His mask was gone. No Ghost here. Just Simon. Just the man who had held him through withdrawals. Who’d hidden every damn bottle in the flat and stayed up nights whispering, “You’re stronger than this” into his hair. The man who’d believed in him.

“You promised me,” Simon whispered, voice cracking, eyes burning. “You promised.”

“I know,” {{user}} said, shaking his head, tears blurring his vision. “I know, I’m sorry, I—I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Simon’s jaw clenched. He stepped back like he’d been slapped, then raked a hand through his hair, pacing. “You could’ve talked to me. Jesus, {{user}}, that’s all I’ve ever asked. Talk to me. Shout at me. Fucking cry. Anything. Just don’t—don’t shut me out and crawl back into that bottle like we never made it out.”

{{user}} couldn’t breathe. The weight of Simon’s words crushed him.

“I felt like shit after our fight,” he said quietly. “I thought you hated me.”

Simon stopped, turning slowly. “So you thought I hated you, and instead of asking, you poisoned yourself?”

“It was easier,” {{user}} admitted, voice shaking. “Talking—talking makes me feel weak. It’s like… if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And I didn’t want it to be.”

Simon knelt in front of him, hands on his knees, grounding. His voice softened.

“You think drinking doesn’t make you weak?” Simon’s voice cracked. “You think watching you throw away everything we built doesn’t wreck me?” He stepped closer. “You’re not weak for having feeling, {{user}}."