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You don't know why he agreed to this. Why he cared enough about you to drive half a day, pick you up from rehab, and bring you into his home.
But he did.
Since then, your dynamic has shifted majorly.
You've been nothing but a horrible bitch to him. He's been nothing but sweet to you.
Rehab was easier than it should have been. There were perks to being famous, ways to get things that you weren't supposed to have, ways to sneak past the eyes of the staff who were supposed to be ever-watchful. Luckily for you, your roommate was a starry-eyed fan with connections through her brother.
You weren't going on benders or anything. But it was enough to take the edge off.
By some cruel twist of fate, he seems to read you better than the facility staff. You suspect that, for whatever reason, he cares more, too.
He fixed you up in his bed, — a decision you're sure he regrets by now. You're a mess, — trembling and crying, restlessly tossing and turning against his silk sheets. You can't quite pull yourself together as the door cracks open. He steps inside, his ever-loyal dog trailing at his heels.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. The tenderness dripping from his voice sounds like pity to you. It just serves to piss you off more as Daisy walks up to the side of the bed and tentatively licks the side of your face.
Normally, you would reach out to scratch behind her silvery ears. Smile at the affection that she offers you for no reason at all, in the way only a dog can.
Now, it takes everything in you not to push her away.
“Don't call me that,” you bite out at him as you feel the bed settle behind you. “I swear to God, just let me…”
“Shh…”
You don't bother to look over your shoulder as he lays down beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist. As soon as you feel him, though, you struggle against his hold. “No,” you say. “No. Don't do this to me. Don't pretend like you like me just because I'm fucked up.”
Against all common sense, he pulls you closer. “I like you plenty,” he responds easily, his voice even as ever. His fingers curl beneath your chin, gently coaxing you to look at him. The contact sends flashes of past encounters through your mind, the same touch in much different circumstances.
The memory melts as soon as you meet his eyes, finding nothing but somber concern.
He hasn't fucked you since you got here. Part of you still doesn't understand it.
You thought that was what your connection was built on. You thought that was all this was.
Your head feels hazy, mind and body feeling like they're closing in on themselves. Your life doesn't feel like your own, in this strange house, in this unfamiliar state, wrapped in the arms of a man who you thought saw you as nothing but a cheap fuck while your brain screams for chemicals that you can't have.
You don't know who the fuck you are anymore. You resent yourself for getting this low in the first place.
A drink could dull this terrible feeling. A quick snort. A few pills.
Disconcerted as you are with his presence, you find yourself burying your face in his chest, letting out a pitiful sob. “Please…” you murmur. “Can I just have a drink? Please?”
It's futile. You know that it is.
That doesn't stop fury from sparking in you at his denial.
“No,” he replies evenly. As though you're not coming apart at the seams.
As though he thinks that he can hold you together.
As though he thinks he has the right.
You look into those green eyes, his face so close to yours. His arms wrapped around your waist, like a snake squeezing the life out of you. This damn bed, — his bed.
You don't belong here. This was a fucking mistake.
“Fuck you,” you mutter lowly.
Before he can say anything, you find yourself digging your nails into his back, as though you were a pissed-off cat. You don't know if you're trying to pull him closer or push him away, just that you're clawing at him. You've been driven mad with want… But not want for him.
Your other vices have always ranked higher on your list of priorities. Surely, he has to know this.
You're using him. You've been using him this entire time.
Up until recently, you figured that was a mutual thing.
Then again, maybe it isn't.
Hence why he won't let you go, even when you're trying to tear him apart.
You gasp as the power balance shifts once again. Within a blink of an eye, you find your back pressed into the mattress, your wrists pinned at either side of your head. He hovers over you, eyes wild behind loose strands of dark hair. You faintly register the sound of Daisy barking, alarmed by the sudden scuffle.
“Stop it,” he says, voice trembling slightly despite the hard determination in his gaze. “Fucking stop.”
You don't say anything, staring back up at him. There's still a restless feeling of determination stirring in your chest. You squirm slightly against his hold, testing him. His hold simply tightens around your wrist, his face not changing. It's almost as though this was something that you rehearsed.
Despite yourself, a warm feeling blooms within you as you take him in. Outwardly composed, despite the flicker of heat behind his eyes and the trembling in his fingers. Exuding perfect control. Keeping you at your most broken, with the hopes that he can somehow mold you back into something whole.
And here you've been hoping that he would help you destroy yourself.
You lay still, the rabbit caught in the jaws of the wolf. Captured prey.
Slowly, his hold on your wrist loosens, ever-so-slightly.
As he glares down at you, you catch a glimpse of that sharp look in his eyes. The one you always used to mistake for resentment.
Maybe that is what it is. But you suspect that a man who resented you wouldn't care if you crashed and burned. Wouldn't care if you shattered into a million doped-up, wine-soaked pieces.
Wouldn't be trying so damn hard to hold you together.
“You calm now?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.
Despite the tornado of confusion and pain tearing up your insides, you have a feeling that you know what the right answer is.
Even if you know it's a fucking lie.
You offer him a slow, silent nod.
His lips turn up in a slight grin. In the mid-afternoon light, he looks uncharacteristically soft.
“Good girl.”
That sound, at least, is familiar.
He drops your wrists, only to pull your limp body into his arms. This time, you don't fight him.
You give up, submit. Because you know that's what he wants.
For some reason, you care about what he wants. Likely much more than you should.
“That's my girl.”
The words feel wrong, untrue.
But his arms around you feel so right.
You bury yourself against his neck, closing your eyes. Willing yourself to screw your head back on and get on with your life, whatever that takes.
You feel yourself trembling, a chill washing over you. At first, you think it's just the cold that seems to bleed from the walls of this old house, the air conditioner hiked up high to combat the Southern heat.
Then his voice meets your ears.
“It's alright, baby,” he murmurs to you. “You can cry. You're alright.”
You are crying. And you're not alright. At least, you aren't right now.
But he seems to think you will be.
If you can't trust him right now, who can you trust?
He holds you with a tenderness so foreign to you, you wonder if you're caught in some withdrawal-addled fever dream. You never expected that you would find such gentleness in this life where everyone wants something from you. Least of all from him.
Yet, here you are.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Guilt wells up inside you as your hand wanders blindly up his back, eventually meeting the raised marks that your fingernails left on the back of his neck.
If he senses your regret, he mercifully doesn't comment on it.
Instead, he starts making promises.
It's a cold day in hell, here in New Orleans.
“I'll take you wherever, to do whatever you want,” he murmurs. “Give you whatever you want. Do whatever you want.” He takes a shaking breath. “Send you back to your manager in California, if you really beg me to.” He presses another kiss to the side of your head. “But I won't let you get fucked up. Not here. Not under my watch.”
You huff out a humorless laugh against his shoulder. Despite the fact that part of you wants to melt into his skin, you manage one last pointed barb. “You're one to talk about that.”
He doesn't take the bait. The motherfucker. “You're right.” Even without looking, you can hear the wry grin on his face. “I am.” His fingers card through your hair and run down your back. “But you've got your whole life ahead of you, kid. You don't need to throw it away like that.”
Your frayed nerves leave you bristling at that. You scoff. “Like it's too late for you?” You rest your cheek on his shoulder, looking up at him. “You're… What? Thirty-three?”
He chuckles. “On the money. You want a prize?”
You crack a smile at that. It almost hurts. “Yeah,” you reply. “Stop calling me kid.” You consider it for a moment, nibbling at your bottom lip. “Unless you're, like… Never gonna fuck me again, or something.”
“I never said that.” He keeps fiddling with your hair, like he's picked up some new nervous habit in the process of attempting to soothe you. He considers it for a moment, before continuing. “In fact, I'm fairly sure that I've called you ‘kid’ immediately after we finished, a time or two.”
You scoff. “Yeah. And it was weird then. It's really weird now that you've hardly touched me the entire time I've been here.”
His fingers leave your hair, skating down your arm. “I'm touching you right now.”
You roll your eyes. “You know that's not what I mean.”
“Yeah. I know.” He smiles down at you, eyes shining in the mid-afternoon light that creeps through the curtains. Your heart leaps in your chest, just like it did on the night that you first met. “You're fragile right now. Wouldn't want to break you.”
Fragile. The word doesn't sit right with you.
You're an addict, sure. But you're not fucking fragile.
If you were easily broken, you would have already lost it, a long time ago.
It took you this long. And it hasn't killed you yet. So that's something.
You let out a grumble of displeasure, turning to teasingly nip at the side of his neck. “I’m gonna hurt you…”
He chuckles and grabs your hand, leading it back to the spot you scratched earlier. “You already did, babe.” He guides your fingers over the scratches. “Feel that?”
Guilt wells up within you again. “Yeah,” you murmur against his skin, tracing the damage you inflicted. “That wasn't very cool of me, was it?”
He huffs out a laugh at your understatement. “No. It most certainly was not. But I forgive you.”
His fingers trail up and down your arm, leaving your eyes growing heavy as you slump against him. There's still a dull ache throughout your entire body, and your insides still feel wrong, but something about his company quells the misery that has become your reality. Shelter from the storm, if not a reprieve from the rain itself.
You register the foot of the bed settling as your consciousness begins to dull around the edges. Daisy settles at your feet, her pale eyes regarding you with a too-human sort of questioning.
“She's okay, girl.” His voice is so soft as he reaches over to pat the dog's head with the hand that isn't currently tracing patterns across your skin. “Just a little fucked up right now, is all.”
You never thought that you would see this man get all melty over a weimaraner, but you never really thought you would find yourself in his actual bed, either.
Just touching. Innocently.
You let out a soft sigh, eyes falling shut.
You feel him shift slightly, probably noticing that you're beginning to drift off.
For a moment, the silence envelops you. Then his voice calls you back from the beckoning of your dreams. “Hey.”
“Mmm?” You mumble against him, not bothering to open your eyes.
He's quiet for a second. Like he's thinking it through. After a while, he speaks up again. “There was this really terrible week I had, last summer,” he begins softly, fingertips still running absentminded trails over your skin. “Locked myself away for a little bit, down by the ocean.” His voice lowers even further as he finishes his point. “I almost killed myself.”
Your eyes open at that.
You consider what to say and come up empty. What is there to say?
Luckily, he doesn't seem to fault you for it. “I'm glad I didn't,” he goes on. “Because I met you the next week.”
You swallow hard, feeling something terrifying bloom in your chest.
He cares. He really fucking cares about you.
You don't know why.
You don't know when it even started.
Maybe he always has, though some loud, cynical part of you seriously doubts that.
“Point is,” he goes on with a quiet sigh, “you've gotta stick around. It's not over for you, kid. There's still so much more.”
You don't correct him on the accursed pet name. You don't say a single word.
You don't know what you would say if you could find it in yourself to speak right now.
Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking that of you.
He simply kisses the top of your head again. “So much more,” he murmurs against your hair.
And maybe there is more.
More beyond all the stages they put you on. More, without all the slow poisons you keep in your bloodstream to keep you sane. More, beyond this bed, where you're sweating out your demons in the company of a gentle gray dog and a man who holds you like you're made of glass, in spite of the fact that he had you pinned beneath him not too long ago.
You cast your heavy-lidded gaze up at him. Try to decide how all of this will realistically go down.
If he's meant to be your destroyer or your guardian angel.
He notices you analyzing him and gives you that crooked grin that gives nothing away
"Go to sleep, baby,” he tells you.
You're used to giving in to him by now.
So you do it again, wrapped in his arms, the afternoon sunbeams warming your skin through the window.