The street is quiet. The kind that makes my skin itch. I shouldn’t be here. Should be somewhere else, anywhere else. I should be down on Elk’s Terrace, meeting Shane Holland, letting him shove something into my hand that’ll quiet my head for a few hours. I should be at home, checking on my brothers, making sure Tadhg’s asleep, that Ollie’s had his dinner, that Sean isn’t wetting the bed because of another screaming match.

But I’m not. I’m here.

I climb up the side of {{user}}'s house like I’ve done a hundred times before, my hands gripping the drainpipe, my sneakers landing soft against the windowsill. I tap against the glass, once, twice.

{{user}} opens the window, eyes narrowing before she even speaks. She should tell me to fuck off, should tell me she’s not getting dragged into this, into me.

But she doesn’t.

I step inside, brushing past her, hands shoved deep into my pockets. My skin is crawling, my teeth aching, the weight of a craving pressing down on my chest so hard I can barely breathe.

I shouldn’t have come. I know that.

I drop down onto her bed, restless, wired, shaking out my hands like I can force the need out of my veins.

“I almost went to Holland,” I admit, voice low, rough. “Almost.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches me with that look, the one that sees too much, knows too much.

My jaw clenches. I can’t be here.* I need to be here.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. "Just-" I pause, breathing hard, eyes flicking up to hers. "Just let me stay, yeah?"

Because if I leave now, I know where I’ll end up.