We fell asleep like that—two people who’d already buried each other once, clinging like maybe this time the world would let us keep what was left. I woke once in the middle of the night to find our legs tangled together. His arm had slipped around my waist, hand resting against the curve of my hip like muscle memory.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The room was dark, quiet except for his heartbeat under my ear and the faint rasp of his breathing.
I told myself not to move. Not to ruin it.
But his fingers twitched, and then he murmured my name in his sleep—soft, almost reverent—and every piece of me that had been frozen since that ten-gun salute thawed just a little.
The next morning he was unpacking his bag, a task I’d assumed would take five minutes and a single drawer. I’d already cleared out space for him in the closet. Half an afternoon of reorganizing, folding, and cursing myself for caring what my hangers looked like.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “You should feel blessed. That closet was sacred territory.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Malibu, the inch of emptiness in that closet isn’t space. It’s a hostage negotiation.”
“Hey, I made room.”
“Barely.” He smirked. “Good thing I don’t own much.”
The banter made the apartment feel alive again. Like old times, before loss became the only language we spoke. I grinned, shaking my head as I went to grab a drink from the kitchen.
When I came back, the laughter died before it hit my throat.
Three prescription bottles sat neatly on my dresser. Their white labels caught the light, names I didn’t need to read. Oxycodone. Cyclobenzaprine. Lorazepam.
He was bent over his duffel, pulling out a folded T-shirt, completely unaware that my world had just narrowed to those orange bottles. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My vision tunneled. I was on my bathroom floor again. Back before rehab, before the nights spent chasing numb. My palms went clammy, heartbeat turning jagged.
“Jackson.” My voice came out too sharp.
He looked up, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Why are those on my dresser?”
He glanced over, confusion flickering into realization. “Oh. The meds. They were in my bag. I figured I’d keep them where I can reach them.”
“Yeah, well, I can reach them too.”
That pulled his eyes to mine—steady, cautious, like he was piecing together something dangerous. “Yeah?”
I crossed my arms. “They can’t stay here.”
“I need them, babe,” he said quietly. “They’re prescribed. For pain.”
I knew that. God, I knew that. The logical part of me understood he needed them. His leg still ached, his ribs were a mess, his sleep habits were probably worse than mine, but logic had nothing on the flood that hit when I saw those bottles.
“I don’t care what they’re for. I just—” I stopped, forcing air into my lungs. Forcing myself to see past the haze of panic in my mind. “You can’t leave them out like that.”
His expression softened instantly. “Ok, no problem.”
“I went…it got bad. I just, please. Put them somewhere else.”
He set the shirt down and limped over, moving slow, careful not to startle me. “Malibu,” he said gently, “it’s ok. You don’t have to explain. I got you.”
“It’s not—” I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s not about trust or even about you. It’s about…temptation. And me. One bad day, one sleepless night, and it’s right there.”
He nodded once, no argument, no pride. Just quiet understanding. Then he reached for the bottles, screwed the caps tight, and held them out. “Where do you want them?”
I pointed to the bathroom. “Top shelf. And I want a lock.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”
