I wake up drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around me like a vice. My heart pounds against my ribs while the pre-dawn air sits thick and heavy in my lungs. The nightmares are always waiting, lurking just beneath my eyelids, ready to drag me back into that darkness the moment I let my guard down.

It's always him. The crack of his fist meeting bone, the thunder of my own pulse drowning out everything else. That look in his eyes right before impact—cold, detached, like I wasn't even his son.

4:48 AM glares at me from the bedside clock. I push off the sheets, but the remnants of the dream cling to my skin like tar. Without the drugs, everything's sharper, more visceral. The screams—Mom's screams—echo in my head with perfect clarity now. There's nowhere to hide anymore.

It wasn't always like this. Back when I was numbing myself with whatever I could get my hands on, the memories stayed buried, fuzzy around the edges. But now? Now they're in HD, surround sound, playing on repeat. My legs shake as I stumble to my feet, running trembling hands over my face. I've gotten good at hiding it all: the sleepless nights, the tremors, the constant gnawing need that lives in my bones. I can't afford to crack now. Not when things are finally shifting. Not when I'm starting to believe that maybe I'm capable of not destroying everything I touch.

But fuck, the withdrawals are hell.

Every nerve ending feels like a live wire, muscles seizing up like they're trying to tear free from my body. The headaches drill into my skull, and nausea rolls through me in waves. It would be so easy to make it stop. Just one pill. But I can't. I won't.

Instead, I let the nightmares remind me of who I am—still that helpless kid who couldn't fight back, who never managed to protect the people who needed him. Only now, there's nothing to dull the edges of that truth.

The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expect: a fucking train wreck. Dark circles carve shadows under my eyes, skin pale as a ghost. I lean against the sink, studying the stranger staring back at me. He's a mess, but at least he's trying. The cold water hits my face like needles, and I welcome the sting. It grounds me to this moment, but my mind drifts anyway—to her.

Fuck.

I wrap a towel around my waist, bare skin still damp—who the hell would be awake now?

Wrong.

She's awake.

Of course she's awake and she’s pressed up against me.

My brain short-circuits. All that separates us right now is her sports bra, skin-tight shorts and my towel. Sweat from her run is making her glisten like something dangerous. Those eyes—they're wild. Hunted. I know that look. I've worn it my whole life. Running. Always running.

Nora freezes.

I freeze.