“Ah,” I said dryly, amused, “so I’m slightly better than homicide.”
“Only just,” she muttered.
I felt my lips curve slightly despite myself and turned my attention back to the road. “I’ll stop judging when you go to those meetings sober.”
She stiffened beside me, her fingers going still in her lap. For once, she didn’t snap back with a quick retort. “I haven’t had a drink in four weeks.”
Four weeks was a long time and not long at all. It was enough to matter—enough that she’d probably felt every hour of it—but fragile enough that one bad day could unravel it all.
She stared back, defensive, ready to argue, because she thought I’d dismiss it. Her fingers tapped against her knee. “You gonna say something?”
I leaned back, watching her. “Proud of you.”
She blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the sincerity. Maybe she expected judgment again—the kind I usually met her with. But the truth was, it took something real to hold on that long. Strength that didn’t come easy, stubbornness that actually mattered. I respected that kind of fight. Hell, maybe I even admired it.
Four weeks meant something. To her and, surprisingly, to me. My foster mother had never lasted more than a week and a half, even with constant promises, constant apologies, and constant relapses. She’d swear it was the last time, and by the next morning, the empty bottles would already be lined up on the kitchen counter.
It had made it hard, damn near impossible, not to judge people who depended on alcohol. Watching someone lose themselves, drown themselves slowly, over and over, had a way of souring the whole concept.
That was probably why I’d never even touched the stuff. Never wanted to know what it felt like to have something control me like that. Never wanted anything in my system strong enough to erase who I was, even for a moment.
And then there was Valentina. Reckless, self-destructive Valentina—exactly the kind of person I’d spent my life steering clear of. But four weeks meant she was fighting harder than I’d given her credit for—harder than anyone I’d ever known. She was holding her ground even if it hurt. Even if she felt like an asshole sitting in those meetings. Even if she hated herself for wanting something that could wreck her life.
It wasn’t just the sobriety itself. It was what it meant. That she wanted to get better. That she wanted to fight—even if she’d never admit it.
And that scared the hell out of me.
If she actually stayed sober, I knew I was done for.
Her drinking had been the one thing—the only thing—that had made it easy to hold myself back from her. I hated the taste of alcohol on her breath; hated kissing someone who tasted of drink and regret. I hated knowing she wasn’t fully there with me even when she was looking right at me. Alcohol kept her just blurry enough that I could convince myself she wasn’t what I wanted.
Without it, every lie I’d told myself crumbled into dust.
It wasn’t just terrifying—it was maddening.
Valentina, sober, meant confronting every dark corner I’d hidden from, every choice I’d justified. It meant standing under a harsh, unforgiving light and knowing she’d see every flaw, every scar, every selfish decision I’d ever made.
And there were plenty. I wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise. I’d spent years doing whatever it took to survive, and somewhere along the way, survival had turned me selfish. Not in the careless, everyday way, but the deep-down kind—the kind that stained everything I touched.
I’d never had much patience for sharing. Not the things that mattered. Loyalty, trust—those were reserved for very few, and even fewer had earned them.
Remy had.
He’d been the only exception I’d ever allowed myself; the only person who’d ever got close enough to matter. It was tunnel vision with him, a single point of focus, like nothing else existed.
I could feel that same instinct creeping in with Valentina—that familiar possessiveness I couldn’t shake. The feeling wasinsistent. The urge to keep her close, safe, hidden away from anything or anyone that could threaten her. Threaten us.
But Remy had left, and Valentina would too.
Anyone would.
If Valentina ever figured out how deep my hands went into the mess of her life, she wouldn’t just leave; she’d erase me completely, and that’d be worse.
I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready to lose another person who’d managed to get past the walls I swore were impenetrable.
The worst part was, I wasn’t even sure if what I felt was about protecting her or myself.
Probably both.
