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I lean up and kiss him, hating that he’s high.

A reminder of the demons he’s trying to drown.

Part of me wants to pull away, to protect myself from getting involved with someone who numbs his pain with drugs and alcohol.

But a larger part of me wants to take away whatever’s hurting him so badly that he needs to escape from it.

I won’t sleep with him, though. Not like this. That would be rewarding the poor behavior, enabling the very thing that’s destroying him.

My hands find the hard planes of his stomach, fingers tracing along the ridges of muscle, feeling how his breath hitches under my touch. “Where are your pills?”

He pulls back slightly, confusion flickering across his features. “What?”

“Tell me where you hide your pills,” I say again, my voice steady.

“Why?” His eyes narrow, immediately suspicious.

I let a small smile play at my lips. “I want some.”

“No.” The word explodes out of him as he pushes himself off the couch, towering over me. “No fucking way. Are you fucking serious?”

I was joking, but his reaction is telling me everything I need to know about how he truly feels about them. If he doesn’t approve of me taking them, then why the hell does he take them? He’s not the party boy I thought he was.

“So, you can take them, but I can’t?” I challenge, sitting up on the couch.

“I’m not giving you drugs, Sage,” he seethes, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

I stare into his eyes, seeing past the anger to the fear underneath. The pain that is so overwhelming that he’d rather be numb than feel it.

“I was kidding,” I whisper finally, my voice gentle. “But give them to me, please.”

His jaw tightens. “What are you doing with them?”

“I’m going to get rid of them for you.” I stand up, moving closer to him.

He glares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Then, without a word, he turns and walks down the hallway.

I follow, watching the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, how it hangs loose over his perfect ass.

God, he’s so tall and muscular and so fucking difficult.

Everything about him is a red flag, but instead I find myself drawn to every dark part of him.

I would do just about anything to help him out of the darkness.

I hover in his doorway, watching as he goes to his dresser and pulls open the top drawer. He reaches toward the back, behind a stack of boxer briefs, and pulls out a small plastic bag.

“All my good stuff is in my underwear drawer too,” I say with a smirk.

That earns me a reluctant smile as he walks back over and hands me the bag. The pills rattle softly as I take them, little white tablets that seem so innocent but hold so much power over him.

“Who’s your drug dealer?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He shakes his head. “None of your business.”

I study the bag in my hands, biting my cheek to keep from pressing further. Instead, I focus on the more important battle.

“But you don’t have to worry,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet. “If you don’t want me on them, if you’ll leave because I’m on them, I swear I won’t take them again.”

“How can I trust that?”

“They’re almost a year old,” he admits. “Even when I bought them, I didn’t take them.”

“So, why do you have them then?”

“Power. Every day I see them and have the choice to take them and don’t.”

I glare at the drugs, trying to make sense of that. He holds all the power, but that doesn’t excuse why he’s high right now.

I question, “But today?”

His eyebrow raises, and something vulnerable flickers across his face. “I lost the battle. You hit me where it hurts, Sage. Nobody talks to me like that, and I told you before—I’m fucked up. The alcohol didn’t help my choices.”

He walks over and sits on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. The posture makes him look younger, less intimidating, more broken.

“I have issues,” he says to the floor. “Bad abandonment issues.”

My heart clenches at the defeat in his voice. I walk over and sit beside him on the bed, reaching out to cup his cheek and turn his face toward mine.

“Slater.”

He looks at me. His gaze is soft. His eyes start to water. And seeing him like this cracks my heart.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my palm. He wipes the tear that slips out. “Thank you .”

I lean in and kiss his lips—soft, tender, nothing like the desperate kisses we shared in the kitchen. When I pull back, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, trying to embrace his massive frame.

I wipe his tears.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper.

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes searching my face like he’s trying to determine if I’m telling the truth. It’s clear he doesn’t believe it, doesn’t trust that healing is possible for someone like him.

“Slater,” I say firmly, holding his gaze. “You’re going to be okay… I promise.”

The words feel inadequate for the depth of his pain, but they’re all I have to offer. Sometimes healing starts with someone else believing in you when you can’t believe in yourself.

He doesn’t respond with words, just leans into me, his head dropping to rest against my shoulder. The weight of him settling against me feels like trust, like surrender. I tighten my arms around him, one hand moving to stroke through his dark hair.

We stay like that for a long time—minutes or maybe hours, I lose track. This connection feels deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s not about desire or attraction, though those things are there. It’s about seeing someone completely, scars and all, and choosing to stay anyway.

I can feel myself falling for him, really and truly falling. Not for the hockey star or the rich boy with the perfect face, but for this broken man who’s brave enough to hand over his armor when I ask for it.

Eventually, he lifts his head, and I notice how his breathing has evened out, how some of the tension has left his shoulders. The sadness is wearing off, and so are the pills, leaving him more present, more himself.

“Your hands are so small,” he says quietly, taking one of my hands in both of his. His fingers trace along my palm, following the lines like he’s reading my future.

“Yours are massive,” I reply, threading our fingers together. “I bet you could palm a basketball when you were twelve.”

“Ten, actually.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “My mom used to say I was going to be a giant like my dad.”

“Is he tall? Your dad.”

“Six-four. But he had soft hands.” Slater’s thumb brushes across my knuckles. “My mom always teased that he wasn’t a real man because his hands were soft.”

I study his face as he talks, noting how his features soften when he mentions his parents, like maybe he has good memories of them once upon a time.

“Where are they?” I ask. “Your parents.”

He sighs. “Funny enough, I got this drug problem from my mom. I get the rest of my fucked-up-ness from my dad.”

“What about before?” I ask, trying to hear something positive. “Before grief took over and tore you guys apart.”

He glances at me, searching my face.

“That loss is unlike anything, Sage.” His voice catches in his throat. “Before Archer died, was just before. It’s a… distant memory. A life that doesn’t seem real. I try to forget about it because this is after. This is what’s real.”

He intertwines his fingers with mine.

“But I try. I try my best every fucking day, Sage.”

I kiss the tip of his shoulder, feeling the melancholy in his tone, knowing that there’s nothing I can do to take that pain away.

I grab his face and turn him to look at me.

I whisper, “I’m so sorry, Slater. So sorry that you have to bear this all alone.”

He kisses me, flicking his tongue against mine, and then he pauses.

“How do you do that?” he whispers against my lips.

“Do what?” I ask, feeling his breath on mine.

“Make me say things I’ve never told anyone else and… make it hurt less.”

I cradle his head into my palms, running my fingers through his hair. I scratch his scalp, massaging him, lulling him to relax.

My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, breaking the tender spell.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Slater asks, his brow furrowing with concern.

“This morning, I think.”

He stands up, pulling me with him. “Come on. Let’s fix that.”

We make simple grilled cheese sandwiches, working in comfortable silence in his kitchen. The domesticity of it—him buttering bread while I slice tomatoes—feels normal. Even after our intense connection in the bedroom, this feels normal. It feels nice.

On the couch afterward, we settle in to watch Love Island, our hands intertwined between us. He teases me about my choice of reality TV shows, and I defend it by explaining that it’s a direct reflection of the culture today and if we look hard enough, we might find ourselves in the contestants.

“He is really stupid,” Slater claims about five minutes in. The blonde is bickering another a guy over a girl.

“You’re such a guy,” I laugh when I realize that he’s somewhat into this.

“It’s simple. Go after what you fucking want. He’s an idiot.”

I snicker, pressing my lips together.

He places his hand on my thigh and sulks deeper into the couch, watching the show. This easy banter, this simple togetherness—it feels like something I could get used to.

When we finally head to bed, I hesitate at his doorway.

“Stay,” he says simply. “Just sleep. I promise.”

I nod, following him into his room. We lie on top of the covers, fully clothed, his arm around me as I rest my head on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls me.

But I stay awake longer than he does, keeping my distance despite his invitation to get closer. The pills might be gone, but I need to be sure he remembers this tomorrow. Need to know his promises are made with a clear head.

I notice his right hand, lying beside him on the pillow. His knuckles are swollen, split open, dried blood still visible in the creases.

He punched something. Hard.

How did I not notice this earlier?

My chest tightens as I imagine him alone in that equipment room, so consumed with rage and pain that he had to hurt himself to feel better. The thought of him bleeding and angry makes my throat close up.

When I’m certain he’s deeply asleep, his breathing slow and even, I stare at his calm face. He’s angelic like this.

“I’m sorry I won’t sleep with you,” I whisper into the darkness. “It has nothing to do with you. But if you can be patient, and honest, and kind...” I pause, gathering courage. “I would love to. I would love to give you everything.”

I press a soft kiss to his lips, meaning it to be quick and gentle. But his arm tightens around me instinctively, pulling me closer even in sleep, and I realize with startling clarity that I’m falling for him.

Hard and fast and completely out of control.

And it fucking terrifies me.