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“I have every right,” I counter, surprised by the firmness in my voice. “I am your—” I stop myself before the word “mate” can escape.

“You are nothing to me,” she says, but the words lack conviction. She’s too tired, too drunk to maintain the façade of indifference.

“Maya.” I crouch before her, bringing myself down to her eye level. “What are you doing to yourself?”

Her laugh is bitter, hollow. “Living. Supposedly.”

“This isn’t living.”

“What would you know about it?” She tries to stand up but teeters. I catch her again and steady her. “Let go of me,” she says.

I do so, reluctantly. She sways a bit more but remains upright.

“Why are you here?” she demands.

“Because I can’t leave,” I admit. The honesty surprises us both. “Not with you like this.”

“Like what? Happy? Free?”

“Miserable. Self-destructive.”

Her face crumples suddenly, the mask falling away completely. No tears come, but her body seems to fold in two as she sinks back down into the chair.

“Go away, Griffin,” she whispers. “Please. Just go.”

Instead, I sit on the arm of the chair, next to her. Not touching, but close enough that she can lean against me if she chooses to. “Your mother wouldn’t want this for you,” I say quietly.

The sound she makes is too raw to be called a sob. “Don’t. Don’t you dare talk about her.”

“She loved you more than anything. She was so proud of you, Maya.”

“Stop.” Her voice breaks. “Please stop.”

“She wouldn’t want you punishing yourself like this.”

“I’m not—” she begins, then stops, as if she can’t bring herself to voice the lie.

“You are.” I risk touching her then, just the lightest brush of fingers against her wrist. “And I need to know why. Is it because of what happened to her? Or because of what I said that night?”

Her eyes meet mine, bloodshot and weary. “Both,” she whispers. “Neither. I don’t know anymore.”

Something inside me cracks at the admission. “Maya, I—”

But she’s already curling in on herself, tears finally spilling over. I pull her against me, cradling her as she weeps, horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that shake her entire body.

“She’s gone,” she gasps between breaths. “She’s gone, and I’m all alone, and I just want it to stop hurting.”

“I know,” I murmur into her hair. “I know, Maya.”

She cries until there’s nothing left, until her body goes limp with exhaustion. I hold her through it all, stroking her hair, wishing I could absorb her pain.

Eventually, her breathing evens out, deepens. She has fallen asleep, tear tracks still damp on her cheeks. I move slightly, preparing to carry her to her bed, but she makes a small sound of protest in her sleep, and her fingers clutch at my shirt.

I carry her to the bedroom, and once again, it’s sparse. A mattress on the floor in one corner and a wardrobe opposite it. After laying her down, I look through her wardrobe. She only has a handful of clothes, not even filling the space. Her kitchen is similar. A small fridge with nothing in it. But then, I already know she eats takeout. Even her freezer is empty.

I check in on Maya before slipping out to a grocery store near her building. I make a few purchases, enough to stock her kitchen. I also go into a furniture store that is about to close for the night and order a comfortable, two-seater couch and a nice coffee table, along with a proper bed.

I know she has the money. I also know she doesn’t care about these things. But I do. I care that she lives in a dump that isn’t worthy of her. I care that she’s slowly poisoning herself. Does she think that because no one is left in her life, she should treat herself like this?