The smell of garlic and peppers fills the kitchen, making my empty stomach start to eat itself. It’s silent other than the sounds of sizzling from the pan of food on the stove. But the silence between us isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable. It always has been. I think that’s why we work so well.

Cooking is our favorite thing to do together. When we’re in the kitchen, it’s like a choreographed dance between us. It just flows. I cut up the veggies, and you sauté them just right. I handle the raw meat since you have an irrational fear of it, and you keep our wine glasses full.

I never thought something this domestic could be my favorite thing—let alone that I’d be participating in such an activity. But, before you, there was a lot of things I wouldn’t do.

When we met, 3 years ago, I was a perfected mess. Running my own mafia, owning my own club to funnel my money through, and women—lots of women. I thought I’d gotten to a good groove, one I’d live in for the rest of my life. I didn’t realize just how unhappy I was.

That is, until you literally stumbled into my life—and my club.

It was an extremely late, or very early, hour at the club. I’d already been there for hours after lots of business meetings and some sneaky trips to my office with a certain bartender I was seeing at the time. I was having a drink in my personal section just before I was going to leave when you walked through the doors. Or, more like floundered your way in.

When I saw you approach one of my associates, with intent like you knew him, I immediately perked up. I could tell something was off from the very beginning. The way your hands were shaking, your eyes were wide and unfocused, and the way you were talking was urgent. I could recognize that look on just about anyone.

You were in withdrawal.

I’d intercepted the situation as soon as I could get a good read on it. You were a buyer from my guys, and you were out. You needed your fix, so you went straight to the source. Luckily, you weren’t angry or causing a scene, you were just hungry. We negotiated on a price, one you could afford, and that was that. You got what you needed. There was just…one small stipulation. I didn’t need you roaming the streets off your ass from shit I gave you, so I had you stay with me. Together, we sat in my private booth while you rode the waves and I took leisurely sips from my drink—admiring you.

I knew you were beautiful the moment you stepped into my space, even if you were fidgety and a bit out of control. You were full of life even when you weren’t focusing on anything but your next hit. But in that moment, when your eyes were shut and the tiny bag of goods I’d supplied you with was empty, it made my heart twist in my chest. A feeling I’d never felt before. It was a bit concerning.

But to see you, a void and lifeless, it did something to me. I didn’t like it. So, I changed it.

I’m not sure how I got you to agree to it, but somehow I took you under my wing. I helped you get clean, get your life back on track, and get that sparkle back in your eyes. Gone were the days of owing money and bad habits. You were clean. And along the way, we fell in love. Another thing I’d never felt before you.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath when the knife slips and nicks my finger. Your neck cranes back to assess my situation, concern in your eyes. “Just a small cut. I’m gonna grab a bandaid.”

I leave my makeshift work station and head for the bathroom. I know we have a first aid kit in here somewhere. Crouched down, my hand blindly searched through the cabinet. But my fingertips brush over something different, not what I was looking for. It’s a makeup bag of sorts, one I’ve never seen you use, but it’s obviously full. Dread fills me for what I’m sure I’ll find.

As it unzips, my nightmare becomes a reality. Inside lies needles, empty baggies, full baggies, tablets, you name it—it’s in here. My heart sinks down to the core of the earth.

You’re using again.

Fuck.