I unlock the window before sliding it upward. “Come inside?” My voice cracks into the night. The cool air runs beneath his T-shirt I’m wearing and over my skin, prickling at the deep scratches on my back.

He turns his head and pulls out another. “I’ll be in when I’m fuckin’ ready, man.” His voice is hard and brusque. A new cigarette enters his mouth. He lights up before wringing his hands, talking to someone I can’t see.

My legs shake as I take a deep inhale of his exhales. It’s leftover smoke mixed with his essence. I swallow it down.

In the middle of the night, without my strength of mind, my own subconscious slams straight into the forefront of my thoughts. How long have I been denying the fact that Slade has a bad case of PTSD? Since the night of the shooting in Vegas. He turned into someone else in that club.

I shuffle to his nightstand and open the drawer, finding a clear Ziploc bag filled with what looks like an assortment of tablets in a variety of colors, all mixed together. I shake my head side to side, not wanting to believe what I’m seeing. It can’t be. But it’s here and … undeniable.

Part of Slade is still in Afghanistan. The zoning out, followed by angry spells. It’s all here, written in neon lights. I should have pried. Instead, I closed my eyes, pretending it was all fine. I didn’t really want to know. Because the truth is, I only had two options: face the facts and turn away from him or ignore them and stay. I wanted him too badly, so I dug my head in the sand. But, now, I’m in love with him—and he’s broken and wrecked.

When I move back to the window, his chiseled face is slightly lit by the red glow of his cigarette, sheared head dipped low. Mumbling to himself, he’s speaking words I cannot hear. Suddenly, he stands. Like a criminal, I drop down to the floor, so he won’t see me and think I was prying. What if he knows I opened his drawer? I move my gaze to the bedside table. Would he realize? Could he? I shiver.

Heavy steps come into the house, and the door creaks before shutting. I feel overwhelmed and insecure as kitchen drawers open and slam shut. Liquor cabinet maybe? Nothing I say will work. Is there a point to talk? Minutes later, another cabinet door opens and shuts. I’m not prepared for this! Quietly, I close the window and jump back into the bed, pretending I never left.

Closing my eyes, I feign sleep. He enters the bedroom. I open one eye. Slade can barely stand, smelling like warm smoke and bourbon.

“We’ll be set to clear shortly,” he shouts.

Is he on the phone? I squint both eyes. No. He’s … talking to the wall, to himself.

“Get some shut-eye, boys. Big day tomorrow.” He starts laughing. “Shut up, Rex!” He smiles wide, jokingly.