Page 50 of Bitter When He Begs

I stay on the floor with him until he falls asleep again.

By the time we hit a week, the physical symptoms have dulled, but they’re not gone. His appetite is still nonexistent, and his mood swings are a rollercoaster ride through rage, self-loathing, and silence.

He’s quiet and withdrawn. Angry one minute, numb the next. Then he tries to pretend he’s fine. He shaves. Showers. Puts on one of his favorite hoodies. Looks me dead in the eye and says, “I’m good now.”

I stare back at him. “You’re not, but you’re better. That’s enough.”

He slumps onto the couch like the air’s been knocked out of him. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m crawling out of my own skin.”

“You’re rebuilding,” I remind him. “That takes time.”

Roman and Eli bring him smoothies and protein bars. Ryan and Damien sit beside him and tell dumb stories that make him smile. Julian helps him stretch out the pain in his back. Thorn talks to him about football, as if nothing’s changed. Killian doesn’t say much, but he hangs around, watching for signs of slipping. Liam makes him tea. Adrian updates him on team stats.

None of them treat him like he’s broken.

By week two, Luca starts to laugh again.

It’s a rough sound. Gravelly. Like his throat isn’t used to it. He comes downstairs for breakfast. Sits in the rec room and doesn’t hide behind his hoodie.

Sage visits Roman sometimes, and Luca lights up in a way I haven’t seen in weeks. He tries to hide it and not approach Sage, but I see the longing in his eyes.

Every morning, we go for a run. It’s slow and he breathes harder than usual. But when we finish, he doesn’t double over in pain or ask me if he can just take one.

That night, he sleeps through without waking up once. I stay on the floor in a sleeping bag beside the bed, just in case. But I don’t need to get up. When the sun rises, he looks at me with clearer eyes than I’ve seen in months.

And for the first time, he says, “Thanks.”

I smile, stretching out. “Don’t thank me yet. You still owe me at least three meals, a new set of sheets, and an apology for trying to punch me when I flushed your stash.”

He snorts, laying back against his pillow. “Fuck off.”

Later that evening, he walks into the kitchen while I’m making coffee and leans against the counter. He looks at me, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t look fucked up, he just looks tired.

But tired is a hell of a lot better than gone. “I still want it,” he admits.

I hand him a mug. “I know.”

“But I want this more.”

I don’t need to ask what he means. He wants his life. His team. His idiot brothers who fill this house with their chaos and silent support. The boy who follows him with his eyes when he thinks no one notices. He wants to be better.

It’s not over. Not even close.

Addiction doesn’t disappear after two weeks of hell. It lingers. It waits. It tests your resolve every goddamn day.

But Luca’s fighting, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I think he finally believes he might win.

Luca

Amonthofthisshit, and it’s still not getting easier.

The activated charcoal was the worst, coating my mouth with that bitter, chalky taste, making me gag even though I forced it down because Damon said it would help.

The prescription IVs Liam helped me get weren’t any better either—pumping fluids into me when my body was too weak to do it on its own. System flushes, hydration, electrolytes—every fucking thing I never thought I’d need because I was so sure I had it under control.

Spoiler: I fucking didn’t. I wasn’t even close to having it under control.

The worst part isn’t the nausea, the diarrhea, the shaking, or the headaches that make my skull feel like it’s about to fucking split in half. It isn’t the cold sweats or the muscle cramps or the nights I wake up gasping, feeling like my skin is crawling from the inside out.