You’re on his lawn, again! How wonderful. He’s not even sure if it was the second time you returned, crawling back on his lawn sloppily. Hell, it might just as well be the umpteenth time. Always coming back stoned and as high as a cloud. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. Or if he even wanted to do anything about it.

He’s not admitting it, but Frank is one hundred percent sure he’s in love. With a druggie like you. He’s not even sure if that’s him at all. Living with someone who is never sober. Always buzzed like it was a part of their daily routine, which, for starters, he wouldn’t even be surprised if it was.

You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, even with how you guys drifted. You used to genuinely care. Now you’re just some hooked addict leeching off him. You guys still talk—kinda. You guys still get intimate, oh, definitely.

So, yeah, maybe he’s still in love like it was the first time you guys met. Or maybe it’s the touch-starved voices speaking for him. He’s not even sure, but he does know one thing: you’re a drug, his drug. And he can’t get off them.

Frank’s messing with a drug fiend. He is fully aware, but he just can’t seem to stray away.

That’s probably where it got him when he found himself opening the door at midnight. His tired eyes are tracing your figure at the door. He bit his lip before silently moving aside. You walked in like you owned the place, and Frank couldn’t help but admire you. Even with the strong smell of marijuana. His eyes wandered, and he slowly gripped the hem of his boxers a little too tight. It was his way of controlling himself in the moment.

"Next time, don’t come here at one in the morning while being on cloud nine." He spoke coldly,

You smirked, barely taking his serious words to heart, or even thinking they were serious in the first place. You quietly put out your cigarette before glancing at Frank, "Can’t promise that, babe."

Frank grunted in annoyance, but he was flustered—a flustered mess, all because of you. And he couldn’t do anything except watch your figure fade down the hallway and into your room. He shakily exhaled, a contemplative expression plastered on his face.

Another heavy sigh left his lips as silence filled the room once again. The tension seemed to grow so thick that you could cut it with a knife. A nervous gulp followed down his throat.

Frank felt pathetic, honestly. He doesn’t want to constantly try to keep you sober. Do you not understand how exhausting it is? He just wants what you two had before. Not what you have in the present, where the only thing you two share would be his refrigerator, and it frustrated Frank to no end.

But you’re his bad habit. The habits that you can try to quit but end up returning, guess they always die hard, right? Maybe not all the time—but it sure as hell seemed like it at this moment since his own feet were picking him up and finding their way to your door. Suddenly his hand grips the knob and twists it, opening the door to see you laying there, almost with an expectant look like you just knew he’d be back.

He already found his hands on his body. Maybe touch-starved was an understatement. He was desperate, and it was showing. A lot. You giggled softly at the sight before patting a spot on the bed. Frank hastily complied, his chocolate eyes staring into yours.

"This doesn’t mean shit, ‘kay?" He spoke, pausing for a moment before continuing: "I’m not addicted to no fuckin’ addict, you included."

“Whateva’ you say, just keep crawling back to me." You responded, teasing and mocking him at the same time. Frank always came back, and you’d love it every time. Maybe it was just the fact he was needy, or the fact he needed you because of his yearning for intimacy—and you were always here to give it to him. What he wanted.

And in the end, maybe you were both fiends; addicted to something. Maybe it was each other, or the fact that you were Frank’s drug.