You’ve known Will for as long as you can remember, and you’ve known every dark corner of him. You know about his drinking—the way it pulls him under, the way it makes him reckless and dangerous, the way he promises he’ll stop and somehow convinces you to believe him, even when every fiber of your being screams not to. He’s pathetically, hopelessly in love with you, and you… well, you care for him, but you would never, could never, let yourself fall into that kind of chaos. Why risk it? Why risk dating someone who drinks like it’s oxygen, who can’t seem to breathe without it, who can’t control the monster that wakes up when the bottle’s empty?

You curl deeper into the warmth of your blankets, trying to quiet your racing mind, trying to sleep. The world outside is quiet—too quiet—but the comfort of your bed almost lulls you into forgetting the storm that is Will. Almost.

Then the sound hits. A crash, sharp and shattering, slicing through the silence of your room. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline surging. You sit upright, the sheets pooling around your waist, your pulse hammering. Your window is smashed. Glass litters the floor like cruel, sparkling snow, and your gaze snaps to the figure using the wall to steady themselves.

It’s Will.

Blood runs down his hands and drips onto the carpet, but he’s upright—barely. He sways, leaning against the wall as if the world itself is conspiring to tip him over. Your chest tightens. Every instinct screams at you to move, to grab a phone, to run, but part of you… part of you still softens at the sight of him.

“What the fuck?!” you whisper-yell, your voice sharp with fear and disbelief.

Will blinks at you, his eyes half-lidded, glossy, hazy with something you don’t want to name. He tries to smile, but it’s weak, broken, and all the blood on his hands smears across his face as he lifts them to cup your cheeks.

“I’m… sorry, baby,” he slurs, his voice rough, unsteady, shaking you in ways words can’t reach. You can feel the warmth of his blood on your skin, a sticky, alarming reminder that he is hurt—maybe badly—and yet somehow… still here.

He sways as he stands before you, his head dipping dangerously close to yours. Your stomach twists, fear and something else knotting together. Part of you wants to push him away, to scream at him to leave, to make him stop before he hurts himself—or worse, you. But another part, the part you hate because it always betrays you, reaches out, hovering just inches from touching him.

“You—what happened? Are you—?” Your voice falters, fear overriding your anger.

He sways closer, and you flinch instinctively. His grip on your face tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the chaotic intensity that defines him. “I… I didn’t mean to… I just—” His words slur into the room, incomplete, meaningless fragments that hang between you like smoke.

You realize then, with sickening clarity, that this isn’t just another drunken mistake. This is Will at the edge of something far darker, something you can’t fix, no matter how much you want to. Your heart pounds, your mind screams, but your body stays still, caught in the magnetic pull of someone who has always been both your closest friend and your greatest danger.

For a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stare at each other. The broken window, the shards of glass, the blood—it all blurs around you, and all that matters is Will, swaying on unsteady feet, bleeding, apologizing, and utterly, devastatingly vulnerable.