“You can do this,” she said. “I know you can.”
The tightness in his chest eased a little, and he gave a single nod before reaching for another bottle.
“Can you go get the others?” he asked.
He wasn’t sure that he’d retrieve all of them if he was responsible for bringing them to the bathroom to empty.
“Of course.”
Kiara disappeared, and by the time she reappeared, he’d emptied the second bottle. She set the three bottles she carried down on the counter, then went to get the rest.
After she’d brought him all six, instead of leaving the bathroom and returning to her seat on the bed, she remained at his side, her hand on his back. She didn’t say anything more. Just stood there, steady and quiet, her presence giving him the strength to pick up another bottle.
He cracked the third one open. The familiar aroma of the alcohol escaped the bottle, and he thought for a twisted second of tipping it back. Not to swallow, just to let it hit his lips. But the knowledge that Kiara was watching made something hot and embarrassed settle inside him.
Turning the bottle over, he watched its contents spiral down the drain. The sound was both satisfying and sickening.
He emptied the fourth bottle and set it beside the others. The four glass bottles lined up before him were almost accusatory in their presence. A pointed reminder of his weakness.
Kiara’s hand didn’t leave his back. Instead, she applied a light, encouraging pressure. It felt strange—comforting and foreign all at once. No one touched him like that, with care and support.
Kiara was seeing him at a vulnerable moment, and usually he would have hated that. He would have hated anyone seeing him like that. But he didn’t sense judgment in her. Just support and concern.
“Halfway there,” he muttered.
He twisted the cap off the next bottle, hesitating a second. He just couldn’t seem to get past the temptation. The scent again drifted up and filled the air, reminding him of how much he wanted to take a drink. To take a swig and slam the bottle down, revealing to Kiara how hopelessly flawed he really was.
But he didn’t want her to see that. It wasn’t why he’d asked her to come to his room while he’d purged his stash.
Instead, he poured it into the sink. The splash of the liquor hitting the porcelain reminded him of all those nights he’d stood in the library, pouring the alcohol into a glass, and then drinking it, the burn intense in his throat as he tried to block out the world.
He didn’t speak again as he settled into the rhythm of emptying bottle after bottle. Open, pour, set down. Repeat.
The last bottle was the hardest. Maybe because it was the end, or maybe because it was the rare one he’d brought back from Europe and saved for… what? A celebration? A disaster? It had been expensive and was probably irreplaceable.
The urge to close the bottle and return it to the chest in his closet, one final backup, flashed through him. But the silent pressure of Kiara’s hand and the heavy expectation in the room swept the thought away.
He tipped the bottle over and watched as the amber liquid flowed into the sink and down the drain. Once it was empty, that final bottle joined the others on the counter.
The air in the bathroom reeked like a dive bar, and he had flashbacks to waking up reeking of the same smell. The idea shamed him.
With the task done, Julian braced his fists on the counter on either side of the sink and let his head hang forward, his headthrobbing, the acidic tang of spilled booze lingering in his nose and throat.
Kiara still hadn’t said anything, but she was closer now, her weight shifting beside him. He couldn’t think of what to say, but he felt a need to fill the silence.
“Thanks,” he said, voice unsteady. “That sucked.”
“But you did it,” was all she said.
He didn’t know what response he’d expected—some speech, maybe. But the simplicity of her words cut through the shame and revealed a weird kernel of pride. He almost laughed, but it caught in his chest, coming out as a strangled exhale.
He lifted his head and saw his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror—raw and red-eyed, jaw tense. But though there was emotion and strain on his face now, he still looked healthier than he had on the mornings when he’d woken up hungover.
Straightening, he rubbed a hand along his cheek, feeling the grit of a day’s growth. His mind was settling, and his body was surprisingly steady.
Julian realized in that moment that he’d expected himself to fail. The worry that had driven him to hide the bottles of alcohol so he’d always have something to drink wasn’t completely gone, but not having the backups didn’t make his skin crawl with anxiety the way it once had. He’d done it.
He looked sideways at Kiara. She had leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed, her expression still free of judgment or condemnation. She had suffered because of his drinking. He hadn’t taken care of her like he had other lovers he’d had over the years. And yet here she was, offering her support.
