startseeingstars

[startseeingstars]

From Kate’s IG story x

[startseeingstars]

Hiiiii 🥰 not at all my usual content, but I thought I’d introduce myself since I’ve gained some new followers!

My names Ash, I’m 28 and live in Australia 🇦🇺 I’m currently reading Fourth Wing (ahhhh!) and I’m obsessed with Rory Culkin. Like, it’s concerning at this point.

I have so much content planned for my man Rory 🥲 and I am open to requests, so please feel free to reach out! I love chatting to new people. 🖤

[startseeingstars]

🐐

From Kate’s IG story x

[startseeingstars]

Maybe it’s Fate - Samuel Lafferty (UTBOH)

CH11

The truck rumbled to a stop outside your house, the engine cutting off abruptly as Sam sat gripping the wheel, his knuckles white. Sarah, still silent in the passenger seat, stared straight ahead. The tension in the cab was suffocating, broken only by the small murmurs of the children in the backseat.

“Wait here,” Sam said, his voice low but firm. He turned to look at the kids, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re visiting an old friend of mine for a little while, okay? Be good for me.”

The children nodded, their faces a mix of curiosity and nervousness. Sam stepped out, opening the back door and helping Joseph, Jenny, and Jared out of their seats. Sarah stayed motionless, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression unreadable.

Sam led the kids up to your front door, their small hands clutching his as he knocked. It opened a moment later, revealing Allen, who froze in the doorway at the sight of them.

“Allen?” Sam’s brows knitted in confusion, his eyes darting between his brother and the three children at his side.

“Uncle Allen!” Joseph exclaimed, his face lighting up as he ran forward to hug him. Jenny and Jared quickly followed, their squeals of excitement echoing in the hallway.

Sam looked past Allen and spotted you stepping into view, your expression shifting from confusion to realization as your eyes met his. He crossed the threshold in two quick strides, pulling you into a long, firm embrace.

“Sarah’s in the truck,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low and hurried. “I’ll be back soon.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his face, your heart racing as the weight of what was happening settled over you. “Sam, what are you doing?”

“Getting them out of there,” he said simply, his tone resolute. His gaze flicked over to Allen, who was still standing in the doorway, his arms awkwardly around the children. “Allen, help me keep them safe.”

Allen nodded slowly, his confusion giving way to concern. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Sam didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he turned back to you. “I’ll explain everything when I get back. Just… trust me, Nora.”

You nodded, though your stomach churned with unease. Sam squeezed your hand briefly before stepping back outside, his figure tense as he headed toward the truck.

From the living room, the children’s laughter filled the space, oblivious to the storm brewing around them. You glanced at Allen, who met your gaze with equal parts worry and resolve.

“Looks like we’ve got some unexpected guests,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

You tried to smile, but your mind was already racing with questions, the weight of Sam’s return settling heavy on your chest.

The afternoon stretched on, a mix of tension and fleeting moments of joy as you spent time with the children. Joseph, at five, was inquisitive and eager to help Allen with anything that resembled “grown-up tasks.” Jenny, at four, had an infectious giggle that bubbled up as she chased Jared, the nearly three-year-old, around the living room. Allen, ever patient, had taken to entertaining them with silly voices and a game of hide-and-seek. Though, you saw flashes of pain in his eyes when the children weren’t looking. This is what he would never have with his own daughter, and that loss would be carried with him forever.

You watched from the couch, marveling at the way the room felt momentarily lighter despite everything. These were Sam’s children, and they carried pieces of him in their expressions, their mannerisms. It was bittersweet to see how much joy they brought and to know the weight of the chaos they’d been pulled from.

Every so often, your eyes flicked toward the driveway. Sam’s truck remained parked, its silhouette visible through the thin curtains. You’d glance out and catch glimpses of Sam, his hands gesturing animatedly, his voice muffled through the glass. Sarah sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her posture unmoving, her face pale and unreadable. Whatever conversation they were having, it was far from resolved.

Two hours passed like this. The children had settled into a board game, their laughter filling the air, when a knock sounded at the door. Allen had excused himself to the bathroom, leaving you to answer it.

Your stomach tightened as you opened the door to find Sam standing there with Sarah beside him. Sam’s expression was weary, his shoulders slumped, but Sarah was another story entirely. Her eyes burned with a quiet fury, and before you could even say a word, her hand shot out.

The slap landed hard across your cheek, the sting immediate and sharp. You stumbled back slightly, shocked, your hand instinctively flying to your face.

“How dare you,” Sarah hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “You think you can take my children? That you can take him?”

“Sarah—stop,” Sam interjected, stepping between you and his wife, his hands on her arms as he tried to calm her.

“They’re mine, Sam!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she twisted out of his grip. “You don’t get to make this decision! You don’t get to drag them into—” She turned her glare on you, tears brimming in her eyes. “You have no right!”

You couldn’t find your voice, your mind racing to process what had just happened. But she was right. You didn’t have a leg to stand on.

Allen appeared in the hallway, his face darkening as he took in the scene. Without hesitation, he knelt beside the children, who had gone quiet, their wide eyes filled with fear. “It’s okay, kiddos,” he said gently, his voice soothing. “Let’s get your coats. You’re going back to your mom for now.”

Jenny whimpered, clutching a stuffed animal tightly as Allen helped them gather their things. Sarah’s chest heaved, her anger giving way to silent tears as she watched Allen lead the children toward her.

Sam’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t stop Sarah as she herded the children into the truck, her movements stiff and mechanical. She slammed the door shut, her eyes never meeting his again, and drove away without a backward glance.

The silence left behind was deafening. You turned to Sam, still clutching your stinging cheek, but his gaze was fixed on the empty driveway. For the first time, he looked utterly lost.

xxx

The house was eerily quiet now, save for the soft creak of the floorboards as you made your way into the living room. Allen had gone to bed an hour ago, retreating with a tight-lipped expression after assuring you both that he’d check in with Sarah and the kids tomorrow. Sam sat alone on the couch, his shoulders slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

He looked exhausted, his face pale and drawn, his hands clasped together as though in prayer. His eyes were fixed on the floor, lost in thought.

You stepped into the room, holding two steaming mugs of tea. He didn’t look up until you placed one of them gently on the coffee table in front of him.

“I thought you might want something warm,” you said softly, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

Sam hesitated before picking up the mug, cradling it in his hands as though the warmth might seep into him. He didn’t drink, but he nodded his thanks.

“They’ll be safe, Sam,” you murmured, your voice steady but gentle. “Sarah was upset, but she loves them. She’ll protect them.”

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around the mug. “I just wanted to get them out of there,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Away from all of it. Away from—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

“I know,” you said quietly. “You did what you thought was best. And it was brave, Sam. Hard, but brave. And the right thing.”

His shoulders sagged further, his gaze flickering toward the window, though there was nothing but darkness outside. “Do you really think things will be okay?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

You reached out, placing your hand gently over his. His skin was cool beneath your touch, and he didn’t pull away. “I do,” you said firmly. “It won’t be easy, but it’ll be okay. Sarah needs time to calm down, and you need time to figure out what’s next. But it’s going to work out. You’ll make sure of it—I know you will.”

Sam’s eyes finally met yours, and the hopelessness in them seemed to waver, just a little. He nodded slowly, clinging to the hope you offered like a lifeline.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling away, settling back into your seat. After a moment, you broke the heavy silence. “Tell me about them,” you said. “Joseph, Jenny, and Jared. What are they like?”

Sam blinked, surprised by the question, but his expression softened as he thought about them. “Joseph’s the oldest,” he said, his voice gaining a little strength. “He’s sharp—always asking questions. Always wants to know how things work. And he’s got this way of figuring out when people are upset. He’ll just sit with you until you’re okay.”

A faint smile touched his lips, and you could see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Jenny… she’s all heart. Sweet, soft-spoken, but stubborn when she wants to be. She loves animals. Always trying to take care of them—birds, stray cats, anything.”

You smiled, picturing the little girl with her quiet determination. Brenda would have adored them all, but you just picture her helping Jenny nurse an injured bird back to health. She was a healer. Maybe Jenny would be too. “And Jared?” you prompted.

Sam chuckled softly, shaking his head. “That boy’s a handful. He’s full of energy, always running around, climbing on things he shouldn’t. But he’s got this laugh—it’s the kind of laugh that makes everything else feel… lighter.”

His voice cracked slightly, and he fell silent for a moment, staring into his tea. “They’re good kids,” he said finally, his tone filled with both pride and regret.

“They are,” you agreed. “And they’re lucky to have you as their father.”

He glanced at you, something unspoken in his eyes, before looking back at his tea. “I don’t know if I deserve that,” he admitted.

You reached out again, resting your hand on his arm. “You do. And they’ll know it, Sam. One day, they’ll know how much you’ve fought for them.”

He nodded again, his jaw tight as he swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he whispered.

You stayed there with him, the tea growing cold between you, as the weight of the evening slowly began to lift.

xxx

The days had begun to take on a rhythm, albeit a tense and uncertain one. Allen spent most of his time quietly, though every now and then, Sam managed to coax a faint smile from him with some offhand comment or shared memory. You could tell it wasn’t much, but it was something—an attempt at normalcy in the wake of so much grief.

Sam, meanwhile, had thrown himself into staying busy. First, he’d shaved his beard clean off. He looked more like the Sam you’d fallen in love with now, only aged slightly with more troubled eyes.

Whenever you looked, he was fixing something—a squeaky hinge, a loose floorboard, a stubborn drawer that wouldn’t quite shut right. It was his way of coping, you supposed, but it also felt like he was trying to prove something.

To himself, maybe. Or to you.

Still, the silence from Sarah and the children hung heavily in the air. Sam’s worry deepened with each passing day, and though he didn’t say it outright, you could see it in the way his hands lingered on his tools, the way his shoulders sagged slightly when he thought no one was looking.

You hated seeing him like that, so when the pantry started to look a little bare, you decided it was time for a distraction.

“You wanna come with me to the store?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe as Sam finished tightening a bolt on one of the kitchen chairs.

He glanced up at you, wiping his hands on the rag tucked into his pocket. “You sure you need me for that?”

“I do, actually,” you said, your tone light. “You think I can carry all those bags on my own? I need the muscles.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of the Sam you remembered. “Muscles, huh?”

“Yeah,” you teased, crossing your arms. “Big, strong, handyman muscles. What’s the point of having you around if I can’t put them to use?”

He shook his head, chuckling softly as he stood. “Alright, I’ll go. But only because I’d hate for you to strain yourself.”

You grabbed your keys and purse, and the two of you headed out. The drive was quiet but not unpleasant. It was a comfortable sort of silence, one that didn’t demand to be filled.

At the store, Sam walked beside you, pushing the cart while you tossed in the necessities. Every now and then, he’d pick something up, inspecting it with mild curiosity. It was a small thing, but it made you smile—watching him adjust to these mundane little moments.

When you reached the produce aisle, you handed him a bag of apples. “Here, make yourself useful.”

He gave you a mock look of offense. “I thought I was just here for the heavy lifting.”

“Multitasking,” you said with a grin.

For the first time in days, he actually laughed—a quiet, genuine laugh that warmed something deep inside you.

The store was unusually quiet for the middle of the day, the soft hum of fluorescent lights blending with the occasional squeak of a cart wheel. You scanned the list in your hand, realizing you’d forgotten to grab bread.

“Sam,” you called over your shoulder, “can you head back to the bread aisle and grab a loaf? Just the usual whole wheat.”

He nodded, his easy compliance a reminder of how much more relaxed he seemed after the lighthearted banter earlier. Watching him stroll away, you smiled softly to yourself, grateful for the small steps forward.

You moved further down the aisle, inspecting cans of soup, when a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“That was fast—” You turned, your words dying instantly.

It wasn’t Sam.

Standing before you was Dan Lafferty, his towering presence unmistakable. His sharp blue eyes bore into yours, and a chill ran down your spine as his lips curved into a tight, unreadable smile.

“Dan,” you managed, your voice a whisper of disbelief.

“Keep your voice steady,” he said lowly, his hand still heavy on your shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to draw any attention now, would you?”

You swallowed hard, trying to will away the sudden spike of fear. “What do you want?”

Dan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What I want is simple. I want my little brother to remember who he is—and where he belongs.”

Your pulse quickened, but you forced yourself to stand tall, meeting his gaze. “Sam knows where he belongs. And it’s not with you.”

Dan’s expression darkened, his grip tightening for a brief second before he let go. He leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t want to test me. If Sam doesn’t come back to his wife, his kids, his family—you’ll see Brenda again sooner than you think.”

A cold wave of dread washed over you, but you didn’t let it show. Brenda’s name on his lips didn’t have the effect he’d hope for—compliance—instead, you felt a flicker of heat within your core ignite and you stood taller. “Sam doesn’t need your threats. And neither do I.”

Dan’s smile returned, sharp and mocking. “We’ll see.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the aisle, leaving you rooted to the spot, heart hammering in your chest.

You forced yourself to finish the shopping, trying to maintain a facade of calm as you spotted Sam returning with the loaf of bread. “Got it,” he said, tossing it into the cart. He didn’t seem to notice your trembling hands.

The drive home was silent. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles white as you tried to keep your emotions in check. Sam had caught on that something had upset you, but he was afraid to ask what. As soon as you pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, it all came crashing down.

Tears blurred your vision as you slumped forward, burying your face in your hands. “Sam,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

His brow furrowed in concern as he reached for you. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You took a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you explained. “Dan… he was at the store. He… he threatened me. He said—he said if I didn’t convince you to go back to your family, I’d be next.”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t move. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Dan. His second eldest brother, the one he’d once idolized, the one he’d foolishly followed down a path of destruction. Now he was threatening the only person who had ever made him feel like himself. Sam was frozen, his face paling as your words sank in. Then, his expression hardened, his jaw tightening with barely contained rage.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” you whispered, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I just… I stood up for you, but—”

He pulled you into a fierce embrace, his hands running up and down your back as he tried to calm you. “You don’t have to apologize. None of this is your fault.”

“But what if he—”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Sam interrupted, his voice firm and resolute. “I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you.” Horrible images of Brenda and her innocent baby invaded your mind. You couldn’t imagine—couldn’t bring yourself to even try to imagine what they had gone through. You were afraid if you did, the process would unravel you completely.

You clung to him, his warmth grounding you even as the fear lingered. He held you until your breathing evened out, his jaw set as he made a silent promise. He’d failed too many times before, but not this time. Dan wouldn’t touch you.

[startseeingstars]

😮‍💨 🧡

From Kate’s IG story x

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH15 🎶 Is It Really You? - Loathe 🎶

The sharp sting of the needle bit into his skin, a sensation both painful and oddly comforting. He stared at you as you worked, your brow furrowed in concentration, the light catching in your hair. He didn’t say anything—couldn’t—but something about the quiet intimacy of the moment made his chest ache.

Your hands were steady, the familiar movements grounding you as you began the first lines. Clay didn’t flinch, though his jaw was tight, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

The design was simple but intricate—your eyes, captured in delicate detail, a reminder that maybe things didn’t need to be this way forever.

He wasn’t sure why he’d asked for them. Maybe he wanted something to hold onto, a piece of you with him while he faced what was coming. Or maybe it was the way your eyes had looked at him earlier, soft but unrelenting, full of a belief in him that he couldn’t quite understand.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured after a while, his voice breaking the hum of the machine.

You looked up with feigned shock. “Oh my god, really? I should do this for a living.” You mocked him and he rolled his eyes.

“Alright, asshole.” He muttered playfully.

“He says as I hold the power to destroy him.” You giggled, but Clay’s heart clenched at your words. You didn’t realise how true they were.

The tattoo took just over an hour, though it felt longer with the weight of the moment hanging between you.

“Done,” you said softly, wiping away the excess ink to reveal the finished design.

Clay lifted his wrist, turning it slightly to get a better look. The small, detailed depiction of your eyes stared back at him, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, he exhaled a shaky breath, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached for the bandage, carefully covering the fresh ink before meeting his gaze. “Alright, so here’s the deal: keep it clean, no scratching, no soaking it in water. I’ll give you the whole aftercare rundown, but you’d better not slack on this.”

He smirked faintly, though the weariness in his eyes dulled the expression. “Yes, ma’am.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I mean it. I don’t want to see it ruined because you couldn’t follow basic instructions.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, the tension between you lighter than it had been in days. Clay leaned back against the cushions, his arm draped across his lap, fingers brushing the edge of the cling wrap you’d covered the tattoo with absentmindedly.

“Tomorrow,” he said after a long silence, his voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, the word heavy with meaning as you watched him carefully.

He turned his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “You’ll come, right? At the end of the month?”

Your heart twisted at the vulnerability in his voice, the quiet plea that he was trying so hard to mask.

“Of course,” you said, your tone firm. You reached out, placing a hand over his. “I’ll be there. With bells, and a parade—the whole shebang.” You joked, earning a small smile.

His gaze dropped to your hand. “What if you don’t like me sober?” His words felt vulnerable, and you couldn’t help but smile a little.

“What if I love you sober?” The words escaped before you could think them over, but there was no going back from them. It was a promise you were making him—even if it did scare the shit out of you.

His eyes shimmered with something you couldn’t quite name briefly, before he sniffed, glancing back at the tv as if what you’d just said had no effect.

You squeezed his hand gently. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid settling between you. Then, as if sensing your need to lighten the mood, he smirked faintly.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice taking on a teasing edge, “this tattoo’s gonna make me look like I’m obsessed with you.”

You laughed, the sound breaking through the heaviness. “I could’ve told you that,” you shot back, a playful glint in your eyes.

Clay chuckled, the sound soft but real. For the first time in days, you saw a glimpse of the person he used to be—the person he could be again.

xxx 🎶 Separate - PVRIS 🎶 xxx

The morning was brisk, the kind that nipped at your skin and made everything feel a little sharper, a little more real. You stood with Clay outside the rehab center, the building looming behind him like a reminder of the uphill battle ahead. His duffel bag hung loosely from his shoulder, and he looked at you with a mix of apprehension and resignation, the kind of look he wore when he was bracing himself for something he didn’t want to face.

He felt exposed standing there, the morning air chilling him to his bones despite the layers he wore. His mind was a swirl of conflicting emotions—relief, dread, and a low-burning shame that he couldn’t quite shake. His fingers twitched in his pocket, curling into a fist as if to remind himself not to bolt.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” you said, trying to sound optimistic, but your voice wavered just enough to give you away.

Clay heard the crack in your voice and hated how much it affected him. He shifted awkwardly, his free hand shoved into his pocket, gripping the edge of his jeans to ground himself. “Yeah,” he muttered, his eyes flicking away from yours to focus on the gravel beneath his feet. The weight of everything—the withdrawals, the emotions, the fear—was etched into his features, and he hated that you could see it so clearly.

You watched as he turned to walk away, his steps slow and hesitant, like he was dragging himself into an unknown future he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to handle. Something inside you twisted painfully.

“Wait!” you called out suddenly, your voice sharper than you intended.

Clay froze, his heart stuttering in his chest. He turned back, confusion flickering across his face as he met your eyes. “What?” he asked, his voice low, guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear whatever you had to say.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the distance between you, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative or soft—it was desperate, full of everything you felt but hadn’t said. Clay stiffened for half a second, his mind racing to catch up with the moment. But then instinct took over, and his hands found your waist, gripping tightly as he kissed you back. There was a rawness to it that scared him, a vulnerability he wasn’t ready to admit to. He poured every ounce of confusion, fear, and need into it because words had never been his strong suit.

When you finally pulled back, your cheeks burned as you noticed a few nurses and patients near the entrance watching with amused expressions. Clay blinked, dazed, his lips tingling, and then smirked. It was small, almost self-conscious, but it was there.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “that’s gonna make these next few weeks drag.”

The smirk wasn’t entirely for show—there was a flicker of warmth in his chest he didn’t know how to process. Still, he couldn’t let the moment pass without teasing you, just to keep things from getting too heavy.

You rolled your eyes, stepping back and brushing your hands against your jeans. “I’ll miss you, asshole.”

His smirk softened as he watched you, and for a moment, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes, a crack in the wall he’d spent years building. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look casual. “I know you will,” he murmured, his voice quiet, but there was something genuine in the way he said it. His reply made something inside of you soar, like he was already inching closer to his usual cocky self.

As he turned and walked toward the entrance, Clay felt the weight of your kiss lingering, something solid to hold onto as he stepped into the unknown. It wasn't exactly hope, but it was close.

xxx 🎶 VICES - Mothica 🎶 xxx

The first week crawled by. You threw yourself into work, but your thoughts always drifted back to Clay. You spoke with his mom regularly, asking if she’d heard anything from the facility. She hadn’t, but she didn’t seem surprised.

One afternoon, you found yourself in Clay’s room, sorting through the mess. His scent still lingered faintly in the air, a mix of cigarettes and the cologne he barely used. You carefully folded his clothes, placing them in drawers, and set aside a small pile of items to donate.

Just beyond his bedroom, you heard his mother bustling around. She’d started tidying up the rest of the house—a task she admitted she hadn’t had the energy for in years.

When you finally stepped out of Clay’s room, you found her in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. The entire apartment looked different, and felt lighter. She looked up, offering you a tired but genuine smile.

“Thanks for doing that,” she said, gesturing toward Clay’s room. “It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to clean up in there.”

You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s the least I can do.”

She paused, her hands stilling on the dishcloth she was holding. “You know,” she began, her voice quieter now, “Clay wasn’t always like this.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say.

“He was a good kid. Smart, funny. A little wild, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Then his asshole father died. Bar fight. Stupid, senseless… typically him.”

The bitterness in her voice was palpable, but it softened as she continued. “I didn’t love him. Not really. We got married young, and by the time Clay was born, we … well, I’d made my choices. But when he died, it… it broke something in Clay. And I…” She trailed off, her voice cracking slightly.

“You blamed yourself,” you said gently, finishing the thought for her.

She nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought I should’ve been stronger for him. Done more to keep him on the right path. But instead, I let him spiral, and now…”

Her voice faltered, and you stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “You didn’t make him an addict,” you said firmly. “And you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

She looked at you, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I just want him to have a chance. But I don’t know if he can do this.”

“He can,” you said, your voice resolute. “He has to.”

The two of you stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between you. Finally, she nodded, wiping at her eyes. “You’re good for him, you know,” she said softly. You offered her a small smile. Let’s hope he thinks so too, you thought.

xxx 🎶 DArkSide - BMTH 🎶 xxx

By the second week, Clay’s absence was unbearable. The apartment felt quieter than ever, the kind of quiet that pressed against your chest, suffocating you. You cleaned up after his detox—washed the sheets, scrubbed the floors where he’d sweat through the worst of it. But no amount of cleaning could erase the memories of his shaking hands, his cracked voice, or the haunted look in his eyes.

The emptiness crawled under your skin. At first, you tried to keep yourself busy. Work, errands, even reorganizing your art supplies. But every time you sat still, the quiet crept in again, and you couldn’t stop thinking. About him. About Will. About yourself.

It was during one of those long, endless nights that you found the bottle of whiskey hidden in the back of your kitchen cabinet. It wasn’t your usual vice, but the amber liquid glinted like salvation.

You poured yourself a glass.

At first, it was just a glass or two in the evenings to “take the edge off.” You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like you were shooting up or passing out in alleyways. You still went to work, still handled your responsibilities.

But soon, one glass became two. Then three. Then four. You started feeling the pull earlier in the day. Mornings dragged on, heavy with dread, until you could convince yourself it was late enough to pour another drink.

The alcohol dulled the ache, smoothed the sharp edges of your thoughts. It silenced the doubts that whispered, He won’t come back the same. He won’t want you when he comes home.

Week three, you stopped taking care of yourself. The effort it took to shower or eat felt monumental. Your hair hung limp and greasy; your clothes were whatever you could grab from the floor.

You avoided Clay’s mother, too. The guilt gnawed at you, but you couldn’t face her. Couldn’t let her see the mess you were becoming.

The days blurred together, one glass after another. You told yourself it was temporary. Just until he got back.

One night, you sat on the couch with a half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. The TV played a show you weren’t paying attention to, the colours and sounds blending into meaningless noise. You stared at the tattoo machine you’d left out, your fingers twitching with the urge to pick it up.

Your thoughts drifted to Clay, to the tattoo you’d given him. You imagined him in rehab, his wrist bandaged, his body weak but healing. You hoped he looked at that tattoo and thought of you. You hoped it gave him strength.

Because you weren’t feeling strong anymore.

You wished you could talk to him—wished it so hard that it hurt. But even if you could, what would you say to him? I’m falling apart without you? No. You couldn’t do that to him. And even if you could, how pathetic, right?

The breaking point came one night when you stumbled into the bathroom, your head pounding from the alcohol. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and froze.

Your reflection looked back at you, hollow-eyed and pale, with dark circles under your eyes and a sadness so deep it felt like it might swallow you whole.

You hated what you saw.

Clay was in rehab, fighting to rebuild himself, and there you were falling apart.

For the first time in weeks, you poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.

You sat on the bathroom floor, head in your hands, tears streaming down your face as you silently promised to yourself, to Will, to Clay, that you would get your shit together.

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on Hill)

CH14 🎶 Anyone Else - PVRIS 🎶

The morning sunlight spilled weakly through the apartment blinds, casting pale streaks across the bedroom floor. Clay was slumped on the bed, trembling, his skin a sickly sheen of sweat. His matted hair stuck to his forehead, and he kept shifting, restless, as if he were trying to crawl out of his own body.

“Myah,” his voice cracked, rough and low, pulling your attention from where you sat perched on the other side of the bed, sketching mindlessly to take your thoughts away from the heaviness of the atmosphere around you. His bloodshot eyes found yours, filled with tears and desperation. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. Just one hit. Please. Just one.”

Your chest tightened as you watched him break down at your silence, his face contorting in pain. He clutched at his stomach and pressed the heels of his hand against his temple like it might quiet the storm inside him.

“Clay,” you said gently, though your voice wavered. “You can do this.” You knew at this point the words had likely lost all meaning to him.

He let out a guttural, frustrated sob and slammed his fists against the pillows. “I’m dying here, Myah! I can’t take it. I can’t—I’ll do anything, please. Just make it stop.” His body curled inward, his sobs growing heavier until he was shaking with them.

You knelt beside him, reaching out to place a tentative hand on his arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away, his broken cries quieting to uneven breaths. “The worst of it should almost be over.”

He didn’t respond, just buried his face in his hands. His strength seemed to ebb as the minutes passed, until eventually, he slumped back into the pillows, his body going limp with exhaustion. You stayed close, watching as his breaths evened out and his eyes fluttered shut, finally succumbing to sleep.

You stood slowly, brushing your hands over your face, trying to shake the overwhelming weight that clung to you. It was only then that you noticed the shadow in the hallway—the sound of someone moving just beyond the door. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the key to unlock the door and slipped out into the corridor.

Across the hall, his mother stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall. She looked tired—not just physically, but bone-deep, like someone who had carried the same burden for far too long.

“How is he?” She asked gently, but you could tell she already knew.

“Uh,” you said softly, hesitating as you closed the door behind you. “I’m taking him to rehab tomorrow morning. He’s… it’s bad.”

Her expression didn’t shift much. If anything, it hardened. “He’s always bad. That’s the thing about Clay—it’s always bad until it’s worse.”

Her words hit you like a slap, and you bit down on your tongue to keep from snapping back. “He wants to get clean,” you said instead, hoping to inject some hope into the conversation. “This time feels different.”

She shook her head with a bitter laugh, her gaze dropping to the floor. “It always feels different at first. But it never lasts. I love my son, but he’s a lost cause, Myah. You’re young—you don’t need to tie yourself to this.”

Her words felt like knives in your chest, twisting and cutting. You clenched your fists, biting back the sharp reply that threatened to spill out. How could she say that about her own son? But then you stopped yourself, forcing your anger down. She’d been through this before, over and over again. Maybe she was just as broken by it as Clay was.

“I’m not giving up on him,” you said firmly, your voice soft but resolute. “I can’t.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered before turning to head back to her own apartment.

You stayed in the hallway for a moment longer, staring at the closed door across from you. But when you turned back to your own apartment, you swore to yourself that no matter how hard this was, you wouldn’t let Clay become a lost cause—not to you.

xxx 🎶 Don’t Lose Your Heart - Dream On Dreamer 🎶 xxx

The apartment was dimly lit, the quiet broken only by the muffled hum of traffic outside. Clay sat hunched over on the couch, his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together as if he was trying to hold himself together. He looked pale, sickly, and utterly defeated. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and the faint, sour smell of sweat and withdrawal hung in the air. He hadn’t moved much all day, too weak and too miserable to even argue anymore.

You stood nearby, twisting your hands nervously as you watched him. He’d barely spoken since waking up, his usual sharp comments replaced by hollow silence. He looked smaller somehow, shrunken by the weight of everything he was going through.

“Clay,” you said softly, stepping closer. He didn’t look up, just shifted slightly as if bracing for you to say something he didn’t want to hear. “You need to take a shower.”

He let out a low, bitter laugh that didn’t carry any humor. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m worried about right now,” he muttered, his voice rasping. “A fucking shower.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s been days. You’ll feel better afterward. I promise.”

He glanced up at you then, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in a mix of frustration and exhaustion. “What’s the point? It’s not like it’s gonna fix anything.”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay patient even as his words stung. “The point is you’re still here. And taking care of yourself, even in small ways, matters. So come on. I’ll help you if you need it.”

His eyes flickered with something—maybe shame, maybe annoyance—but he didn’t argue. He sat there for a moment longer, his shoulders sagging as if even agreeing to the task was too much effort. Finally, he pushed himself up, swaying slightly before steadying himself against the arm of the couch.

“Fine,” he mumbled, his voice flat. “Whatever.”

You led him to the bathroom, flicking on the light and giving him a moment to adjust to the brightness. He stood there awkwardly, leaning heavily against the sink, his eyes darting around like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“You need help, or are you gonna be stubborn about undressing too?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

His lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What, you offering?” he muttered, the teasing edge weak but still present.

“You’d like that, I’m sure.” you replied, stepping closer. Your hands hovered near him, waiting for his permission.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes locking onto yours. There was something raw in his expression—vulnerability he didn’t want to show but couldn’t quite hide. Finally, he nodded, the smallest movement, and you stepped in.

You started with his shirt, peeling it away carefully, your fingers brushing against his clammy skin. He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away, his breathing uneven as he let you help him. When it came to his sweats, he hesitated, his face twisting in discomfort.

“You don’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“I know,” you replied softly. “But I want to.”

With that, he relented, letting you ease the fabric down his thin frame. You caught glimpses of the toll his addiction had taken on him—the sharp angles of his ribs, the bruises that dotted his skin. It was hard to see him like this, so vulnerable and exposed, but you didn’t let it show on your face.

When he was down to just his boxers, you undressed yourself as well. You didn’t want this to feel awkward or uncomfortable for him, and he seemed to take comfort in your calmness.

Clay’s gaze rested on you as you undressed, and he took in the intricate details of tattoos he had never seen before. If he were feeling himself, he would have made a flirtatious joke, but in that moment, he felt soft, and all he could think about was how beautiful you were.

Together, you stepped into the shower, the warm water cascading over both of you. Clay leaned heavily against the tiled wall, his head bowed as the water washed away the grime and sweat. You reached for the soap, your movements gentle and deliberate as you worked to clean him up.

“Better?” you asked softly, glancing at him.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes closed and his breathing uneven. Finally, he nodded, the smallest gesture, and you could have sworn you saw the faintest trace of relief cross his features.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A tiny step forward.

You guided him to turn around gently and noticed tears welling in his eyes. Your heart ached as you leaned forward, planting a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead. The warmth of the gesture seemed to break something in him. A sob tore through his chest and he buried his face into your bare shoulder as he crumbled.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around him, pulling him close as you let your own tears fall. Seeing him like this was tearing you apart. You could only imagine how he felt.

Clay felt defeated. More than he ever had in the past. Every other time he tried to get clean, he knew eventually he’d pick the needle back up. This time was different. He actually wanted to get through this, but the lingering thought of never experiencing the high again was tearing him apart more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

He knew how bad the last few days had been for you - how much of an insufferable jerk he’d been. And yet, you’d remained so patient and understanding. It was infuriating at times, but he was grateful.

Your soft skin against his face seemed to ground him slightly, and eventually, his sobs eased into slow, staggered breaths. He felt hollow, but he knew you needed him whole. He wanted that too.

An hour later, you’d just finished towel drying Clay’s hair, and now he sat on the edge of your couch, pretending to be interested in whatever was playing on tv. He was clean, his skin pink and fresh from the shower, but his face was still pale, eyes still sunken.

“Myah,” his voice croaked, but he’d managed to drink some water, and you could already hear the improvement.

“Yeah?” You tossed aside your towel and sat beside him as he dragged his eyes away from the tv, letting them land solely on you.

“I, uh…” he trailed off, unsure if he could bring himself to say the words. “I don’t wanna go.” His voice cracked slightly and you felt your stomach drop.

“Clay, we’ve been through this, I can’t—“ you sighed, shaking your head in frustration and defeat.

“N-no, I mean,” He reached out and touched your hand, covering it with his own. “I don’t wanna … be alone.” He could feel the empty hope in his words, but he knew he had to go. He knew he needed to get better, be better. Make this worth something.

Your heart faltered, and you felt the familiar pull in your chest as he looked down, afraid to meet your gaze.

“Hey,” you reached out and cupped his face in your hand gently, meeting his eyes. “You can’t shake me that easily, Trouble.” You promised, smiling reassuringly as you leaned in and brushed your lips softly with his.

“I don’t know if I can do this without you.” His words were barely a whisper, but you heard them clear as day. “It’s fucked. I-I need-“ he bit the word back on his tongue. “A distraction.” He pleaded, though it wasn’t what his body craved.

“Like what?” You blinked, caught off guard. “Tell me what I can do.” You squeezed his hand as he ran the other through his damp hair, slicking it back. He was quiet for a few moments before he looked at you again, seemingly helpless.

An idea sparkled in your mind, though ridiculous, you couldn’t ignore the small sense of hope it brought with it. He noticed the shift in your face. “What is it?” He asked, curiosity laced in his tone.

“Do you trust me?” Your heart pumped a little faster, but after a few moments, he nodded. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Want a tattoo?” The idea sounded absurd as you said it out loud, and you almost took it back, but he nodded.

“Yeah,” something inside his eyes flickered, and you watched as he took a deep breath. “Yeah, that could work.”

You sat at your desk, tapping your pencil as Clay looked through your flash folder to pick out a design. He closed the book, feeling a little guilty that nothing peaked his interest. Your work was amazing, but nothing caught his eye in the way he thought it might. Not until he looked over at you, running your hand through your hair as you chewed the pencil in your other hand.

“You.” You glanced at him, confused as to what he meant. “Design one based on you.” His request made you laugh aloud—a strange sound that cut through the heavy atmosphere of the last several days.

You stared at him wide eyed as you realised he was serious. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he stood, walking over to you weakly, unable to look away from your eyes. “Your eyes.” His voice wavered slightly, still a little hoarse. “Can you do that?” His gaze settled on you, and for the first time in days, you saw something other than pain in his eyes.

You were taken aback. It wasn’t your face—wasn’t a symbol of possession—but something that felt like a quiet request for understanding, for you to be with him in a small way.

“Only small though,” you muttered, your gaze flicking away from him to your empty sketch pad. “So I can cover it later when you realise how corny this is.” A small smile tugged at your lips, and his mouth twitched with the same.

[startseeingstars]

CH13 🎶 Behind Blue Eyes - Limp Bizkit 🎶

The early light filtered into the room in muted streaks, painting the walls in pale shades of morning. Clay woke with a start, his body aching, his head pounding, and his throat dry as sandpaper. The faint sound of muffled sobs pulled his attention from the pain radiating through his limbs.

He turned his head toward the sound, his eyes still hazy from sleep. There you were, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the TV cabinet, the tattered shoe box open in front of you.

Clay’s stomach tightened as he remembered all the photos and memories of Will stored in there—the ones he had studied your eyes, your smile in, until you’d caught him. You almost seemed like a different person now.

“Myah,” his voice came out rough, cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, feeling like razors were edging their way down it.

You startled slightly, turning your tear-streaked face toward him. For a second, your eyes searched his, but you quickly looked away, brushing at your cheeks like you could erase the evidence of your grief.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you said softly, your voice trembling. You swallowed hard, looking back down at the photo in your hands. You needed Will. Needed to see his face. To remember how you felt with him.

Clay shifted, sitting up despite the protests of his sore muscles. He wasn’t good with moments like this. He wasn’t good with emotional weight—never had been. But he couldn’t ignore the ache in his chest as he watched you struggle to hold yourself together.

“I’m not him, Myah.” he spoke gently, his voice softer than usual, but it made your chest clench with tension. “Saving me won’t bring him back.”

You hesitated, then turned the photo toward him. It was a snapshot of you and Will, your faces close, grinning like you didn’t have a care in the world. Clay’s chest tightened as he saw the way you looked at the man beside you—like he was your whole world.

“I know you’re not him, Clay.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings for you.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. Clay looked away, his jaw clenching as he tried to make sense of the sudden weight in his chest. He hated this feeling, this vulnerability creeping up on him like a slow, unrelenting tide.

You took a shaky breath, setting the photo back into the box. When you looked at him again, there was something in your eyes he didn’t recognize—something raw, unfiltered, and terrifyingly real.

“I’m falling for you,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “And it scares the hell out of me, because I can’t lose you too. Not like this.” Those last words cracked in your throat.

The silence that followed was deafening. Clay stared at you, his mind racing, his chest tightening as your words sank in. He wanted to argue, to push you away like he always did, but he couldn’t. Not this time.

You moved toward him, your hands trembling as they cupped his face. Before he could say anything, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that felt like a lifeline. It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, like you were trying to pour every fear, every hope, every ounce of pain into that single moment.

Something inside him clicked. He didn’t know what it was, but it felt like a switch had been flipped, like the fog that had consumed him for so long was finally starting to lift.

When you pulled back, your forehead resting against his, tears still streaking your cheeks, he reached up, his hands covering yours.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “You don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve to live,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tears. “And I’m not going to let you throw that away.”

For the first time in a long time, Clay felt something close to hope stirring in his chest. He didn’t know if he could do it, didn’t know if he was strong enough to get clean, but for you—for the way you looked at him, like he was still worth saving—he wanted to try.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Really try.”

You smiled through your tears, and for the first time since he woke up, Clay felt like maybe he had a real chance at something better.

xxx 🎶 Feels Like I’m Dying - The Amity Affliction 🎶 xxx

The days blurred together like smudged ink on a page. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, filled with the muffled sound of Clay’s groans and the rhythmic pacing of your feet as you moved from one corner of the room to the other, trying to keep yourself together.

It was day three. Day three of sweat-soaked sheets, trembling hands, and whispered reassurances that you weren’t sure he believed—or that you believed yourself.

Clay was sprawled on the couch, his body taut like a bowstring, sweat glistening on his pale skin despite the cool breeze from the cracked window. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, and his chest rose and fell erratically, as if he were fighting something inside himself.

You sat nearby, perched on the armrest of the chair opposite him, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. You hated seeing him like this—hated the way he flinched at every noise, the way his eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal.

“You need anything?” you asked softly, your voice breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Clay muttered, his voice hoarse and sharp as a blade. His eyes flicked toward you, bloodshot and glassy, and there was a bitterness in his expression that made your stomach twist. “I need the one thing you’re not gonna fuckin’ give me.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure. “Clay, we talked about this. You’re doing so good—”

“Good?” He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that cut through you like a knife. “This is good to you? Look at me, Myah. I’m dying here.”

“You’re not dying,” you said firmly, standing and moving closer to him.

He shifted, sitting up on the couch with a pained grunt. His hands trembled as they ran through his damp hair, tugging hard at the roots as if he could rip the cravings out of his skull.

“Feels like it,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “I can’t— I can’t fucking do this.”

“Yes, you can,” you insisted, kneeling in front of him. You placed your hands on his knees, trying to ground him, trying to make him hear you. “You’ve made it three days, Clay. That’s huge.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, you thought he might believe you. But then his face twisted into something desperate, something raw and broken.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please, Myah. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.”

Your heart clenched, the weight of his words hitting you like a freight train. You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes as you tightened your grip on his knees. “No.”

“C’mon,” he pleaded, his voice rising. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand what this feels like.” Clay’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, his hands curling into fists.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice low and broken. “I hate feeling like this. Like I’m not even in control of my own fucking body.”

“I know,” you said softly, tears streaming down your face. “It must be hell. But you’re stronger than this. You’ve got to hold on.”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut. For a moment, you thought he might lash out again, might accuse you of playing savior again. But instead, he nodded—just barely, but it was there.

xxx 🎶 Remedy - Seether 🎶 xxx

It was day four, and things were spiraling.

The air in the apartment felt more suffocating, a dense mix of sweat, desperation, and the sharp tang of unspoken fear. The once-quiet space you had carved out as a sanctuary was now filled with Clay’s erratic pacing, the sound of his uneven breathing, and the occasional thud of his fist against the wall.

“Let me out, Myah,” Clay snarled, his voice raw and venomous. His hair was a damp, matted mess, and his shirt clung to his trembling body. His movements were jittery, like he was trying to outrun the withdrawal coursing through his veins.

Clay’s skin felt like it was ablaze, but he shivered like he���d been left in the cold. His head throbbed, muscles ached, but the thing he hated most was the way you looked at him like he was fragile, broken.

“You told me not to,” you said, your voice steady even though your hands were shaking. You stood between him and the door, the weight of the hidden key pressing heavily in your pocket. “Day one, Clay. You told me to keep you here, no matter what.”

“That was before!” he barked, running his hands through his hair and tugging at the roots. His eyes were wild, glassy with unshed tears and anger. “I didn’t know it’d be this bad. I forgot I’d feel like I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.”

“I know it’s bad,” you said quietly, though your heart was pounding. “But I’m not letting you leave like this.”

He took a step closer, his presence looming, his energy vibrating with frustration. How could you be so calm when he felt like this? “You don’t get it! I need—” He stopped himself, biting down on the words. His hands shook at his sides, clenched into fists as though he was holding himself back. “I just need air, alright? I need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Air, or a hit?” you countered, your voice sharper than you intended.

His face twisted into something that was equal parts guilt and fury. “Don’t—don’t fucking do that, Myah. Don’t act like you’re better than me.”

“I’m not,” you snapped back, the frustration bubbling over. “But I’m trying to help you, Clay. And if you walk out that door right now, you’re going to kill yourself. Is that what you want?”

He flinched, the words hitting him like a slap. For a moment, his resolve seemed to waver, his shoulders sagging as his hands dropped to his sides. But then his jaw tightened, and the anger returned, sharper than before.

“I can’t do this!” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation. “I’m losing my mind in here, Myah. I’m losing it!”

You felt the tears welling up, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of him. “I know,” you said softly, stepping closer. “But you’re not alone. I’m right here.”

“Yeah?” he spat, his tone dripping with bitterness. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be. Maybe you should just let me go and stop trying to fix me.”

The words stung, but you didn’t back down. “If the roles were reversed, you’d help me. I know you would.” you said firmly. The realisation that you weren’t enough for him was painful, but you refused to give up on him. “I can’t do this on my own. You need more help than I can give you.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you need rehab,” you said, the words heavy and painful, like pulling teeth.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No fucking way. I’m not going to some—some bullshit facility where they treat me like I’m a goddamn criminal. I’ve done it before and I won’t ever fucking go back.”

“Clay,” you said, your voice trembling now. “You’re getting worse. You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping. You’re shaking, you’re—”

“I’m fine!” he shouted, the rawness in his voice making it clear that he was anything but.

“You’re not fine!” you shouted back, the tears finally spilling over. “You’re sick, and if you don’t go, you’re going to end up dead in the fucking gutter.”

The room fell silent, the only sound his labored breathing and the pounding of your heart. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a moment, you saw the fear in his eyes. Not anger, not defiance—fear.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve made it this far. You’re stronger than you think. But you need help. Real help.”

He sank onto the couch, his head in his hands, his body trembling. “I don’t want to do this alone,” he muttered, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear him.

“You’re not alone,” you said, sitting beside him and placing a hand on his back. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. But you have to take that first step, Clay. You have to want to get better.”

For a long time, he didn’t respond. Then, finally, he nodded—just barely, but it was enough. It was a crack in the wall he had built around himself, and you clung to it like a lifeline.

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH12 🎶 This Could Be Heartbreak - The Amity Affliction 🎶

You woke up with a bitter taste in your mouth, a dry scratchiness in your throat that made you wince as you swallowed. The sunlight creeping through the gap in your curtains painted a soft glow over the room, but it did nothing to calm the growing tightness in your chest. You shifted under the blanket and rubbed at your eyes, disoriented for a moment before the night came rushing back in pieces—Clay, the argument, the teasing, the vulnerability.

Your gaze moved toward him, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. His posture was hunched, shoulders sagging like the weight of the world had finally crushed him. His hand moved absently over his forearm, fingers curling and uncurling in rhythm, a nervous tick you'd started to recognize. He looked hollow, drained. Not the Clay who smirked with that cocky confidence or pushed your buttons with quick wit, but someone unraveling in slow motion.

"Hey," you said cautiously, your voice hoarse as you sat up. You weren't sure what to say, the air between you heavy with unspoken things. "You alright?"

He didn't turn to you right away, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. It was starting. The withdrawal. He knew the signs well - the creeping anxiety, the aching in his bones, the way his thoughts raced and clawed at each other.

When his eyes finally met yours, they were distant, glassy, like he wasn't really looking at you at all. Just through you. His mouth twitched, but the attempt at a smile fell apart before it even began.

"I'm fine," he muttered. The words were clipped, too rehearsed, like he'd said them so often they didn't mean anything anymore.

You frowned, leaning forward slightly. The energy between you was different. Gone was the shaky truce from last night, the hints of something deeper beneath his sarcasm and sharp edges. This felt colder. Closed off.

"Clay," you said softly, carefully, like the wrong tone might shatter whatever fragile peace remained. "Do you still want to get clean?"

He stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned his focus back to his hands. His fingers trembled faintly, and he didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know if he could do it. The high was easier. Simpler. It was the closest thing to peace he had experienced, and he wanted to cling to it.

He flexed his hands, frowning like he could will the shaking away.

“I don't think it's really a problem," he said finally, his voice low and strained. The words felt like a slap in the face, an empty deflection that made your stomach twist.

"Bullshit, Clay." The words came sharper than you meant, frustration bubbling up and spilling over before you could stop it. "I found you wandering around yesterday, all fucked up after scoring, and now you're sitting here pretending like everything's fine?"

His eyes snapped to yours then, and for a second, the distance vanished. His gaze was sharp, defiant, the Clay you knew rising to the surface. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest like he was trying to build a wall between you.

"Don't, alright? Just don't." His voice was hard, edged with bitterness and something that sounded too much like hurt. "I'm used to people fucking off when they get tired of me."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you just stared at him, stunned. He saw the way your face shifted.

You could see it—the sharp edge of his vulnerability, the cracks in the armor he wore so tightly. But it didn't stop you from pushing back.

"Clay, I'm not fucking off," you said, your voice softer now, the anger bleeding into something more tender. "But I can't just sit here and watch you kill yourself. I'm not your damn enabler."

He flinched at that, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face before he quickly buried it under another layer of bitterness. He hated that he believed you. He could hear the sincerity in your voice, something he hadn’t heard from many in his life. He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head as he looked away.

"Right. You care about me," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You're really gonna stick around while I keep doing this shit? Are you really that fucking naive?" He expected you to snap, to walk away and prove him right. But you didn’t.

You hated the way he looked at you, like he was daring you to leave, like he was trying to push you away before you could get too close. But you wouldn't let him.

"You know I don't give a shit about you, right?" The words came out of nowhere, cutting through the air between you like a knife. His voice trembled slightly, the anger giving way to something rawer. "I only wanted to fuck you."

The venom in his tone made you recoil, but you didn't believe him. Couldn't. Not after everything that had happened the past few weeks. His chest twisted painfully at his own words, but if he pushed you enough, then maybe you’d leave, and he wouldn’t have to deal with the way you made him feel like maybe he wasn’t a lost cause.

"If that's true, then fuck me. Right now." Your voice was quiet, steady, but it cut through the tension like a blade.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide with surprise. He wasn't expecting that. For a moment, the room went silent, the air charged with something electric. He took a step closer, his gaze hard, searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

"C’mon, Clay," you pressed, stepping closer to him. Your heart was pounding, your breath shallow, but you didn't back down. "You just said you wanna fuck me. Take me how you want me.” You whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Bend me over, make me scream, fuck the shit outta me,” you stared at him, eyes hard as you dared him. “Do it. Then tell me you don't give a single shit about me."

The tension between you was unbearable, every nerve in your body on edge as you waited for him to do something—anything.

He stared at you, his expression unreadable, but his breathing was uneven, his hands trembling at his sides.

Then, suddenly, he reached up, his hand slipping behind your head as he pulled you closer. He thought he might kiss you, prove you wrong, prove himself wrong. But instead of the kiss you braced for, his lips pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering. When he pulled back, his eyes were clouded, his voice rough.

"Not in the mood," he muttered, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets. Your arms fell to your sides, empty.

He couldn't meet your gaze, his jaw tight, his posture rigid.

And then he was gone, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding and your mind racing. You realised, as the door clicked shut behind him, just how deep you were getting.

And you weren't sure you could pull yourself back.

xxx 🎶 Somebody Told Me - The Killers 🎶 xxx

The sun was setting as you and your coworker, Jace made your way to your apartment. The city air was cooling down, brushing softly against your skin as you carried on with light conversation. He’d walked you home to grab some extra tattoo supplies you’d promised him—a handful of spare inks and stencils from your stash. Nothing more, nothing less.

But as you approached your building, you saw him. Clay.

He was leaning against the building, hoodie pulled up, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Even from a distance, you could see the restlessness in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His eyes were darker than usual, and his posture screamed tension.

The moment his gaze landed on you, something in his face twisted. His eyes flickered to Jace, his jaw tightening as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

You felt the air shift before Clay even opened his mouth.

“Busy night?” he called out, voice sharper than it needed to be.

You frowned, sensing the undercurrent in his tone. “Just grabbing some ink,” you replied, keeping your voice calm.

Jace nodded politely toward Clay, but his body language was already backing off, picking up on the tension hanging in the air. “I’ll wait down here,” he offered, giving you a quick nod before heading toward the street corner.

But Clay wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes were locked on you, narrowing slightly as you approached.

“What’s his deal?” he asked flatly, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

You sighed, already tired of whatever this was turning into. “He’s just a coworker, Clay. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Clay let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he looked away for a moment. “Yeah, sure. Just a coworker,” he muttered. The sarcasm cut through you like a blade.

“What the hell’s your problem?” you snapped, crossing your arms. “Why do you care who I walk home with?”

He turned back to you, and there it was—that sharp, defensive glint in his eyes, the one he used whenever he felt cornered. “Why do I care?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly before his face fell slightly. “I don’t. Just making an observation.”

You blinked, taken aback by the bitterness in his tone. “Whatever, Clay.”

“Exactly,” he shot back. His voice cracked slightly, his withdrawal starting to bleed through the cracks in his anger. “You’re like every other fucker I’ve ever met.” He went to say more but himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to rein himself in.

“Clay,” you started, your voice softer now, “this isn’t about me. You’re experiencing withdrawal.” You keep your tone even, despite the pain that twisted in your chest.

His laugh was bitter, humorless. “Don’t act like you know me, Myah. You don’t. You just like thinking you do.”

“Then help me,” you pleaded, taking a step closer. “I want to understand, Clay, but you keep pushing me away.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. You could see the war playing out in his head—the part of him that wanted to let you in battling with the part that was too scared to.

But then his expression hardened. “Maybe you should just stick to guys like him,” he said, nodding toward the corner where Jace waited. His tone was low, almost cruel. “Seems more your speed.”

The words hit you like a slap, and you flinched, your chest tightening as you tried to process what he’d just said.

“Don’t keep saying shit you’ll regret.” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly.

Clay’s jaw worked, his shoulders tensed as he avoided your gaze. In a moment, he was walking away, flicking the cigarette to the side.

You stood there, watching him go, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a stone. You wanted to call after him, to stop him, but the lump in your throat was too heavy, and your legs wouldn’t move.

Instead, you turned back toward your building, your stomach twisting with guilt and frustration. You didn’t know how to reach him, how to break through the walls he kept putting up, but you couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that you were losing him—piece by piece.

xxx 🎶 Just Tonight - The Pretty Reckless 🎶 xxx

The horrible feeling had been sitting in your chest all night, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. You couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that Clay would be fine. He always managed to walk that thin, dangerous line, didn’t he? But tonight felt different, heavier.

By the time you found yourself standing outside his apartment door, your heart was pounding. The hallway felt darker than usual, colder. You hesitated, fist raised to knock, but something made you stop. The air was too still.

“Clay?” you called out, knocking firmly.

No answer.

Your stomach twisted as dread coiled tighter around your chest. You turned the knob, surprised when the door creaked open easily.

The sight that greeted you made your blood run cold.

Clay was slumped on the floor near the couch, his body limp, head tilted at an unnatural angle. A used needle lay discarded nearby, the rubber tie still hanging loosely from his arm. His face was pale, lips tinged with a faint blue.

“Shit!” you yelled, rushing to him, dropping to your knees so hard it sent a shock up your legs.

Your hands trembled as you shook him, desperately trying to rouse him. “Clay, wake up! C’mon, don’t you dare do this!”

Panic clawed at your throat as you slapped his face lightly, then harder. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open, and his breathing was shallow, barely there.

Your mind raced, searching for what to do. You looked around the room, and then saw a small first aid sticker on one of the kitchen cabinets. Thank God his mom was a nurse.

You bolted to the cabinet, ripping it open and sifting through bottles and first-aid supplies until your fingers closed around the small orange box. You ripped it open, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped the syringe.

Returning to Clay, you bit down on the fear threatening to overwhelm you. “Fuck you,” you muttered, positioning the needle and jabbing it into his thigh. You pressed the plunger down, feeling like the air was choking your lungs.

Seconds felt like hours. You slapped his face again, harder this time, your palm stinging from the impact. “Wake the fuck up!”

Finally, his body jolted, and he let out a weak, gasping breath. His eyes fluttered open just barely, unfocused and dazed. Relief flooded through you so quickly it nearly knocked you over.

“You fucking asshole,” you muttered, holding back tears. Roughly, you grabbed his arm and struggled to haul him up. He was heavier than he looked, but adrenaline and sheer determination fueled you.

Dragging him to your apartment, you barely registered the effort it took to get him inside. You laid him on the couch, his breathing still shallow but steadier now. His head lolled to the side as he let out a low groan.

You sat on the floor beside him, head in your hands, and the tears finally came—hot, angry tears that blurred your vision and left your chest aching. You hated him in that moment, hated him for doing this to himself, for making you feel this helpless. But more than that, you hated how much you cared.

When his voice broke the silence, it was barely a whisper. “Myah…”

You looked up, your tear-streaked face meeting his tired, guilty eyes. His voice was hoarse, and his hand twitched weakly, as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t.

“I fucked up,” he murmured, his words slurred but heavy with shame.

“Yeah,” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury and grief. “You did.”

He closed his eyes, his face crumpling with something between pain and regret.

“I can’t watch you die, Clay. Please don’t fucking leave me.” Your voice cracked as tears flooded your voice and eyes.

He flinched, the words cutting deep, but he didn’t argue. He knew you were right. He knew he’d pushed too far this time. He’d pushed you too far, and he knew it. But the fact that you was still there, sitting beside him, even after everything… it made something unfamiliar stir in his chest.

He didn’t know what to do with it, so he let himself drift back into sleep, hoping the morning would bring something easier. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t.

As you sat beside him, watching him drift into an uneasy sleep, the anger in your chest dulled, replaced by an overwhelming sadness. You cared about him too much, and it scared you. But no matter how much it hurt, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away.

[startseeingstars]

this blog hates donald trump

[startseeingstars]

Reblog daily for health and prosperity

[startseeingstars]

Can I just brush it pls I’ll be so gentle

From Kate’s IG story x

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH11 🎶 NEO - Ocean Grove 🎶

You sighed as you tossed your keys onto the kitchen counter. You’d had another long day, and your eyes stung from the concentration you needed for the full day session tattoo you’d done.

Suddenly, the door slammed open with a force that made you flinch, your heart skipping a beat. Clay stormed in, face twisted with fury, his eyes blazing with anger.

His mind was racing, the anger simmering under his skin, the rush of adrenaline from his confrontation with Eric still pulsing in his veins.

“The fuck do you mean, man?” Clay stuttered, running a hand through his hair as his blood ran hot.

“She told me not to give you anymore, dude. Take it up with her.” Eric muttered, shaking his head as he went to close the door on him. Clay’s arm jolted out and held the door open with force.

“C’mon, man, you gonna listen to her? I’ve got the cash—what’s the issue?” Desperation wasn’t a tone Clay enjoyed hearing in his voice, but in that moment, his skin crawled with an itch that he knew Eric could relieve.

“Get your bitch in line, then I’ll help you. I’m not risking my day job for this shit.” He shook his head and shoved Clay’s arm out of the way before he slammed the door shut.

You barely had time to set your bag down before he was in your face, his jaw clenched and his chest rising and falling with every sharp breath.

“You had no right.” The words felt like they were clawing their way out of his throat, a release for the frustration he hadn’t been able to shake off. You knew he was talking about Eric, and immediately felt small under his presence.

“Clay, I -“

“I’m not your fucking project, Myah,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t act like you’re saving me.”

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, he regretted it—regretted the way he’d come at you. But then the thought of you telling Eric to cut him off hit him again, and the regret vanished. You didn’t get it. You weren’t supposed to get it.

You stood frozen, taken aback by the intensity of his anger. The words cut deeper than you expected, but you refused to back down. You hadn’t done anything but try to help him, even if he couldn’t see it.

“Clay,” you said, trying to steady your voice, “it shouldn’t be a problem for you to stop if it’s so casual.” Your voice came out shakier than you’d intended, but you held your ground as he paced in front of you.

The tension between you thickened. He stared at you, his eyes narrowing as if you had just slapped him. “You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed. “You think I’m just gonna stop? It’s not that easy.”

You could feel your pulse racing, the words you wanted to say caught in your throat. “You told me it was casual, Clay. If that’s really the case, then why are you acting like this?” Your words were like a damn accusation to him.

He scoffed, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You really don’t get it. It’s not about you, Myah. It’s not about you trying to fix me.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence of the room.

His gaze flickered, his fists clenched at his sides as if the words were physically painful for him to get out. “You don’t know shit about me or what I need.” But he wasn’t sure if he was angry at you for thinking you could fix him or if he was angry at himself for letting you think that way.

You felt your own anger rising, the weight of his words pressing on you. You had tried to help him, tried to make him understand that he wasn't some charity case to you, but he wasn’t having any of it.

Without another word, Clay turned on his heel, storming towards the door. “Stay the fuck out of it.”

You stood there, frozen, watching him leave. The door slammed shut behind him with finality, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over. You had no idea where he went, or if he was coming back, but you felt that sick pit in your stomach, the one that told you something bigger was happening between the two of you—whether you wanted it or not.

You weren’t sure if you were angry at him or at yourself. But one thing was clear: you were done pretending that his habit wasn’t affecting you.

xxx 🎶 Brand New City - Mitski 🎶 xxx

You couldn’t shake the sting of the argument earlier. It was one of those moments when words felt sharper than you expected, and now, all you wanted was to fix it. You knew you’d overstepped, but Clay—Clay had been so goddamn stubborn. It was like trying to knock down a brick wall. Still, you needed to make things right. You had to apologize, even if he wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

When you knocked on his door a few hours later, his mom answered with that same tired warmth she always wore. But as soon as you asked for Clay, you saw it: the subtle shift in her demeanor. Her smile tightened just a bit.

“He’s not home,” she said. “Hasn’t been for hours. You know how he is when he…” she sighed, and you felt your stomach twist. “He’ll be back when he’s ready.”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat. The unease that had been slowly creeping in settled heavily in your chest. Was he okay? Was he safe? You didn’t know why, but the nagging doubt refused to let go. You had to clear your head and get some air.

Walking out onto the street, you tried to focus on your breathing, to calm the restless storm inside your chest. You’d been walking for a while through the quiet streets, your mind racing, when you spotted him in the distance.

Clay.

But something was off. He didn’t look like his usual self. His steps were unsteady, his shoulders slouched as if the weight of the world had come crashing down on him all at once. His face was pale, and his eyes—his eyes were far away, glazed over.

The knot in your stomach tightened as you realised he was high again.

You quickened your pace, your heart racing. “Clay!” you called, trying to keep your voice steady, but even you could hear the edge of panic in it.

He turned slowly, almost lazily, his eyes blinking in confusion before they focused on you. A lazy smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not in the way it normally did. He was barely holding it together.

“Hey, Myah,” he slurred, and it hit you instantly—he was fucked. He was so fucked.

“Jesus Christ, Clay,” you muttered under your breath. “What the hell are you doing?”

He shrugged, the motion stiff, his hands fumbling at his sides. “I’m good. Just… just needed to clear my head. You know, some space.”

You stepped toward him, your hands trembling but determined to keep your composure. “Space? You’re out of your fucking mind right now.”

His eyes wandered, unfocused. “Nah. Just a little… something. A little to help, you know?” He tried to sound casual, but his words came out all wrong, like he was trying too hard to convince both of you.

“You’re an asshole.” You muttered, but the words felt wrong, like you didn’t mean them, even if you wanted to.

He just laughed, that same bitter, dismissive laugh that never felt like it meant anything. “It’s nothing, Myah. Just a little thing I do sometimes. It’s fine. Really. You don’t need to—”

“Just shut up, Clay.” You were done. The last thing you needed right now was an unconvincing spiel about how casual his habit was.

“I don’t need you looking out for me,” he said quickly, his tone defensive, a shift in his posture like he was trying to distance himself from the truth. “I’m fine.” His voice was flat, and you could tell that even in his influenced state, he wasn’t convinced by his own words.

You could feel the anger and hurt bubbling up inside you, but you didn’t want to let it push him away. Not now, not when he needed someone. “Clay, you don’t get to tell me not to care.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at you with that empty look in his eyes. It was like he was already checked out, already trying to escape, and it fucking hurt.

Finally, he just muttered, almost too quiet for you to hear, “I don’t need anyone.”

You stood there for a second, torn between wanting to shake him until his words made sense and the part of you that just wanted to hold him. You didn’t know which was worse: him being so distant, or seeing him like this and knowing you couldn’t fix it.

“Just—just don’t do this, Clay,” you whispered, voice raw. You couldn’t even believe you were saying it, but you needed him to hear you, needed him to wake up. “Don’t let this be you.”

Clay’s gaze flickered over to you, and for just a moment, there was a shift. A flicker of something, but it was gone before you could catch it. Then he turned away, moving slowly, his feet dragging. “I don’t need you telling me who the fuck to be.”

“Whatever, asshole. Just come home, yeah?” You took his arm, steadying him as he swayed slightly.

“Why? So you can keep lecturing me?” He slurred, but in the moment, you couldn’t tell him it was to keep him safe. To keep him close to you. If you did, he’d pull away from you further.

“I rented some movies for us.” You lied, feeling a mixture of guilt and sadness in the pit of your stomach.

He sniffed, wiping at his nose. “Alright, fine - but I don’t want none of that cuddly shit, got it?” His words made your stomach twist, but you knew deep down he was afraid of whatever the hell was happening between you. You felt it, too—only, you seemed to have your shit together about it a little more for a change.

xxx 🎶 Meant to Live - Switchfoot 🎶 xxx

When you walked into your apartment, you directed him to the couch, guiding him down as gently as you could. He leaned back, eyes glazed, but at least he wasn’t pushing you away. You tried to hide the anxiety in your chest, but it was hard. All you could do was try to keep him from slipping too far.

He wasn’t sure how he got there—sat on your couch, half-drunk, half-fucked on heroin—but there he was. And there you were, looking at him like you actually cared, and that fucked with his head more than anything else.

You sat beside him and began rolling some joints, feeling the weight of the silence press in. He wasn’t really looking at you, his gaze unfocused. You studied his face—tired, worn, like he’d been carrying the world on his shoulders for too long. The weight of the question you needed answered was heavy. You couldn’t just let it go.

“Why?” The word was simple, but you had to ask. “Why’ve you been doing this? Taking this shit?” You kept your tone soft, careful not to set him off as you tried to understand him better.

Clay shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking over to you. His voice was rough, like it hurt just to speak. “Life’s been shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know how to deal with it. Just… everything.” It was the only thing he could say - the only excuse that fit. He didn’t know how to fix anything, didn’t know how to deal with the shitstorm that had been his existence. But it was easier this way. “I don’t know how else to cope.”

You felt a surge of empathy but also anger. You wanted to shake him, force him to face the reality of it all. But instead, you just sat there, letting the silence speak for you.

“I get it,” you said quietly, breaking the tension. “My life’s been pretty fucked up too.” You leaned back against the soft couch as you lit the joint between your fingers.

Clay shifted slightly, turning his head to glance at you, but his eyes never really focused. He seemed to be listening, but it was hard to tell if he was truly present in the moment. He opened his mouth to say something, but you spoke again before he could.

“You think I’m the one with the mess of a past, but you’re just as fucked up,” you continued. “We all deal with shit differently, I get that. But this… You fuckin’ can’t.”

There was a long pause, and then to your surprise, Clay let out a soft snicker. You shot him a look of confusion. “What?”

His voice was lazy, almost teasing. “Just say you like me, Myah.” His grin was lopsided, mischievous, like he was enjoying the tease.

You froze for a second, heart racing in your chest. Your stomach did a little flip. “Shut the fuck up, Clay,” you stammered. “You’re high.” You pushed the subject aside, realising that his drugged out self was even cockier and overly confident than his regular self—a dangerous trait. Especially for you.

Clay leaned toward you, taking your face gently in his calloused fingers so your gaze met his. His eyes were unfocused, but still beautiful - still like blue pools of icy water that you could drink forever.

The contact of his touch made your heart hammer loudly in your chest, and for a split second, you felt your chest melting, longing for him. Not this fucked out version of him, but the one you saw beneath the rough, sketchy exterior, beneath the hurt that life had burdened him with.

His face inched closer and he brushed his lips against yours, making your breath hitch. Your stomach lurched and you abruptly stood up, putting some distance between you.

“I’m not kissing you like this.” You shook your head, stomach twisting as you denied yourself the satisfaction of feeling his mouth on yours.

“Fine, play hard to get. We both know you want me.” His arrogance created a conflict within you. On one hand, it made you want to spite him—to kick him out, or challenge him. On the other, it stirred something darker in you. It was something you knew you wanted, but morally couldn’t permit.

You scoffed, trying to play off the arousal you undeniably felt at your core. “I’d want you a lot more if you weren’t a heroin fiend, y’know.” You muttered, instantly regretting the coldness of your tone.

His face twitched, and then he raised an eyebrow. “What? Can’t handle a little baggage?” He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes that looked a little sad, almost like he knew he’d crossed a line and didn’t care to acknowledge it.

You leaned back a little, folding your arms, but you couldn’t help but bite back. “No,” you said, your voice quieter now, more serious. “I can’t handle watching another person I care about kill themselves.”

Clay froze, his grin fading as the weight of your words hit him. There was a long silence, and he didn’t immediately respond.

He hadn’t realised Will’s death had been a suicide. He hadn’t really wondered about how Will had died - maybe because to him, it didn’t matter. Or maybe, he was just an asshole who didn’t give any thought to the important details that affected you.

“I didn’t, uh…” His words trailed off, and you realised he didn’t know, because you’d never explicitly told him. “I’ll try.” His voice seemed distant, but he appeared more grounded than before—more sober, like the realisation had brought him back to you a little.

“What?” You asked softly, shifting on the weight of your foot as you stared at him.

“Get clean. I’ll try.” His lack of confidence didn’t leave you with a lot of hope, but you had to admit that his words did offer some relief, even if it were only slightly.

“I’m not promising shit, though. I’ll try but… this isn’t the first time, y’know?” Shame clung to his words, and your heart tugged at his vulnerability. You’d never seen this side to him—so soft, so… open. It was strange, and endearing, and just… oddly intriguing. It seemed like every week, you were peeling back a new layer to him.

You settled back down, the tension between you dissipating, just a little. Clay shifted next to you, and for the first time all night, the distance between you seemed to close in a way that was comforting. Without a word, you let yourself lean into him, wrapping your arms around him cautiously. His head rested on your shoulder, and you let out a shaky breath.

Clay’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body a familiar comfort. You closed your eyes, letting the silence settle around you, both of you exhausted in your own ways.

It wasn’t perfect, not even close. But right now, you just wanted the closeness. You didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow, but tonight, you had him here with you. That was enough.

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH10 🎶 The Zephyr Song - Red Hot Chili Peppers 🎶

The late afternoon light filtered through Clay’s apartment, dim and golden, casting long shadows over the space. You sat cross-legged on his couch, holding a half-full beer bottle and trying not to glance too obviously at his arm. But you’d noticed. The faint redness at the crook of his elbow, the way he scratched at it absentmindedly. He’d shot up again.

He looked… okay, though. His energy was subdued, but he wasn’t out of it. If anything, he seemed sharper, more present than the night before. Still, it was hard to ignore the gnawing unease that had settled in your chest.

You’d invite yourself over again to check on him, and to your surprise, he had let you in—no grudge, just a knowing smirk when he’d opened the door to you.

“So,” you said finally, breaking the silence. “What’s the deal with you and Eric?”

Clay glanced at you, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light. “I mean, you don’t exactly seem like the type to hang with guys like him.”

He smirked faintly, the kind of smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What type is that?”

You rolled your eyes, gesturing vaguely. “The quiet, sketchy dealer type.”

Clay let out a short laugh, taking a swig from his beer. “You’re not a very good judge of character.” He muttered, clearing his throat before glancing at you briefly. “Eric’s… useful. That’s all.”

The words hung heavy between you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. You wanted to press him, to demand why he thought this was fine, but instead, you leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling.

“My parents were never around much, either, y’know.” You said suddenly, your voice quiet.

Clay turned his head toward you, his brows knitting together slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his attention shift, sharp and focused.

“They worked a lot,” you continued. “Or at least, that’s what they said. My mom was obsessed with keeping up appearances—making sure the neighbors thought we were this perfect little family. My dad was… well, let’s just say he was good at disappearing when it suited him.”

You hesitated, feeling a lump form in your throat. “They’d leave me alone for days sometimes. Social services got involved more than once, and I ended up in the system for a while. Foster care, group homes… you name it.”

Clay’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he listened.

“It wasn’t all bad,” you added quickly, as if to downplay it. “I got out eventually. Cut all ties when I met Will. He was… my escape.”

The mention of Will made your voice waver, and you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to keep going. “He gave me something to hold onto when I felt like I was drowning. And when he died…” You paused, swallowing hard. “Well I’ve had a hard time trusting anyone since.”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words settling over both of you. You could feel Clay’s gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting, but he didn’t speak right away.

Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice rough. “My dad was a piece of shit.”

The admission surprised you, but you didn’t react, giving him the space to continue.

“He drank. A lot,” Clay said, his tone flat. “And when he wasn’t passed out on the couch, he was… pissed. At everything. At me, at my mom, at the world. He’d come home from work in a bad mood, and it didn’t take much to set him off.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair. “He’d take it out on her, mostly. Yell, break things, sometimes worse. I tried to stop him once when I was a kid—thought I could protect her. That didn’t go well.” His voice faltered, and you felt your chest tighten.

“My Ma… she’s a nurse, y’know?” he continued after a moment, his words slower now, like they were costing him something. “Still works crazy hours, hardly ever home. And when she was, she’d just… pretend everything was fine. Like if we ignored it, it would go away.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

You didn’t know what to say. The anger, the frustration in his voice—it was so raw, so unfiltered. It reminded you of your own pain, the way it festered under the surface no matter how much you tried to bury it.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, and you meant it.

Clay shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now.”

But you could see the lie in his face, the way his jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists. It did matter. It had shaped him, just like your past had shaped you.

“You’re not your dad, you know,” you said gently.

He flinched at that, his eyes snapping to yours. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but then he just shook his head. “Yeah. Sure.”

The sarcasm in his voice stung, but you didn’t press. Instead, you reached out and rested a hand on his knee, a silent gesture of support.

Clay glanced down at your hand, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might pull away, but then he sighed, his shoulders sagging.

The movie played softly in the background, the dim light from the TV screen casting shifting shadows across the living room. Clay had been quiet for a while now, his head resting against your shoulder as his breathing slowed. At first, you thought he was just zoning out, lost in his own thoughts as usual.

But then, you felt the weight of him shift slightly, his body relaxing completely against yours. His head lolled, cheek brushing against your collarbone, and the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing confirmed it: he was asleep.

You couldn’t help but smile faintly, a rare moment of peace washing over you. Clay rarely let his guard down like this, and it felt… important, somehow.

Carefully, you adjusted your position, easing an arm around him so he wouldn’t slip off the couch. He stirred slightly at the movement, muttering something unintelligible before he tucked himself closer to you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

Your heart thudded against your ribcage, a mixture of affection and nervousness taking hold. He felt warm, his body fitting against yours in a way that felt both comforting and unfamiliar.

The movie continued to play, but you barely paid attention. Your thoughts were too busy racing: Should you wake him? Should you leave? What if his mom came home?

As if on cue, the sound of keys jangling at the front door sent a jolt of panic through you. You froze, your breath catching as the door creaked open and Clay’s mom stepped inside.

“Clay?” she called softly, her voice tinged with exhaustion.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. It felt childish, but the thought of explaining why you were cuddled up on her couch with her son was too mortifying to bear.

There was a pause, the faint rustle of her coat being hung up. Then, her footsteps approached.

You felt her presence in the room, her gaze lingering on the two of you. Your heart pounded in your chest, anxiety spiking as you wondered what she must be thinking.

But she didn’t say anything. Instead, there was a soft rustling sound, and then the gentle weight of a blanket being draped over both you and Clay.

The TV clicked off, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint glow of streetlights outside.

“Goodnight, kids,” she whispered softly, and then her footsteps receded down the hall.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest easing just slightly. Clay shifted again in his sleep, his arm draping loosely around your waist.

And despite your racing thoughts, the warmth of him and the quiet comfort of the moment lulled you into a calm you hadn’t felt in days. You let yourself relax, your fingers lightly brushing against his back as you settled in, the steady rhythm of his breathing finally allowing your own to slow.

xxx 🎶 Longshot - Catfish & The Bottlemen 🎶 xxx

The soft light of early morning crept through the cracks in the curtains, bathing the living room in a faint, golden glow. You blinked awake, your head heavy from sleep, the events of the night still lingering in your mind. The couch was cool beneath you, but something was different—there was an odd, warm weight against your side.

Clay was sitting up, propped against the armrest, watching you with a smirk that seemed to stretch just a little too wide for someone who’d just woken up.

“Morning,” he said, voice husky and amused. His eyes were glinting, that mischievous twinkle in them that made your stomach do a flip. “Guess you're not too mad at me to cuddle, huh?”

You blinked, your face flushing as you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. He caught the way you froze for half a second before scoffing. Classic you. Deflect, retreat, and pretend you didn’t feel a thing.

“Did not cuddle,” you muttered, pushing yourself up with a slight grimace, doing your best to ignore the rush of heat spreading across your cheeks. “You passed out on me. I just didn’t want to wake you up and be a dick.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head, and gave you a grin that was a little too cocky for your liking. “Uh-huh. Sure, that’s how it went down.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You must like me, huh?”

The way he said it—half-joking, half-serious—had your stomach twisting. You couldn’t tell if he was teasing, or if there was something else in his voice, something that made your heart beat just a little faster. You hated the way it made you feel, the way he had this effect on you.

“Shut up, Clay,” you muttered, grabbing your bag off the floor and standing up quickly, trying to put as much distance between you and the teasing glint in his eyes. You couldn’t let yourself get caught up in whatever this was.

But as you turned to leave for the door, you caught the way his grin softened, the small, subtle shift in his expression. He didn’t say anything more, but you could feel his gaze on you, making the back of your neck prickle as you left.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching as you hesitated for a split second at the doorway.

Clay shook his head, his voice softening even though he didn’t say it aloud: You don’t need to run, doll.

But he didn’t stop you. Instead, he sat there, eyes fixed on the empty space you left behind, a faint tug pulling at his chest.

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH09 🎶 Yellow - Coldplay 🎶

The pounding in your head was impossible to ignore. You blinked against the harsh morning light seeping through your blinds, groaning softly as the events of the previous night came flooding back. Your lips still tingled faintly, and your chest tightened when you glanced around your apartment.

Empty.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but waking up to find Clay gone stung more than it should have. The ache in your chest mingled with the bitter taste of the comedown, leaving you raw and hollow.

The day dragged on. You went through the motions—showering, eating something bland—but everything felt muted, your mind circling back to him over and over again. By the time the sun set, the restless energy had become unbearable. You needed answers, or at least the chance to clear the air.

So, you found yourself standing in front of his door, the nerves twisting in your stomach making you second-guess the decision. But before you could turn back, the door swung open.

It wasn’t Clay.

“Oh, hi, Myah,” his mom said, her smile warm but slightly curious. “Looking for Clay?”

You hesitated, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, is he home?”

She shook her head, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s out. Not sure when he’ll be back.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” you murmured, turning to leave.

“Wait a second,” she said, stopping you in your tracks. You turned back slowly, and there was a spark of something sly in her expression. “You’re a friend of his?”

“Uh, yeah,” you replied, though the word didn’t quite sit right in your mouth.

Her smile widened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Clay doesn’t have a lot of friends, you know. Especially female ones.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “We’re not… I mean, we’re not dating or anything.”

The knowing look she gave you made your cheeks burn. “Of course not,” she said lightly, though her tone suggested she didn’t believe you. “Still, it’s nice to see him spending time with someone.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and you fumbled for a response but came up short.

“Well, I’ll let him know you stopped by,” she said, still watching you closely.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, turning quickly and walking away before she could say anything else.

As you made your way back to your apartment, your heart felt heavier with every step. Her words echoed in your mind, mingling with your own tangled feelings. You hated the vulnerability creeping into your chest, hated how easily Clay had wormed his way under your skin.

And worst of all, you hated that you weren’t sure what to do about it.

xxx 🎶 Masterpiece - The Rubens 🎶 xxx

The buzz of the tattoo gun hummed in your ears as you leaned over your client’s arm, meticulously shading the intricate design they’d chosen for flash week. The parlor had been a madhouse for days—walk-ins piling through the door, the phone ringing off the hook. You were running on caffeine and pure adrenaline, the kind of exhausted that had your brain moving in slow motion while your hands worked on autopilot.

You hadn’t seen Clay in days, not since the night in your apartment. You told yourself it was for the best, that some distance would help clear your head. But that didn’t stop your mind from drifting to him when things got quiet—on the rare occasion they did.

The bell over the door jingled, and you glanced up briefly, more out of habit than curiosity. Your heart stuttered when you saw him.

Clay.

The shop smelled like ink, antiseptic, and stale coffee. It wasn’t his usual scene, but Eric had told him to stop by during his shift. Clay had been reluctant at first—he hated how exposed he felt walking into places like this, where everyone seemed to look right through him and see every crack. But he needed a fix, and Eric had the goods.

It was stupid, really—he hadn’t even known you worked here, and now he felt like he was intruding. Like he’d stumbled into a part of your life he wasn’t supposed to see.

He stood just inside the doorway, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, scanning the room. To you, he looked out of place —uncomfortable but trying to mask it with that usual air of detachment.

Your stomach flipped, and you quickly refocused on your client, hoping the buzzing of the gun would drown out the thundering in your chest.

“Need help?” one of your coworkers, Eric, called out, stepping around the counter. He was one of the quieter ones—a wiry, sketchy-looking guy who kept to himself. You’d never had a reason not to trust him, but something about his demeanor always put you on edge.

Clay hesitated before nodding, his gaze sweeping across the room again. For a second, it landed on you, and his expression flickered with something that almost looked like regret.

Eric motioned for him to follow, and Clay trailed behind him into the back room.

Your jaw tightened as you watched them disappear. Something about the interaction didn’t sit right with you. Eric rarely dealt with walk-ins; he wasn’t even an artist—he just hung around the shop, helping out when things got busy.

“Everything okay?” your client asked, their voice pulling you back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Almost done here.”

But your mind was elsewhere, thoughts swirling as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

Clay followed Eric down the dark hall toward the back of the shop. “Give me five,” Eric muttered, gesturing for Clay to wait by the utility sink.

Clay shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the crumpled bills he’d pulled together for this. His chest felt tight, and he hated the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him to turn around and leave. But he stayed.

Finally, the door to the back creaked open, and Clay stepped out, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the floor. He was halfway to the door before you called out to him, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Clay.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your tone softer now as you set down your tools and wiped your hands.

“Just… came to see Eric,” he said vaguely, still avoiding your eyes.

Your brow furrowed. “You know him?”

“Yeah. We go back.”

You didn’t buy it, but you let it slide. “You leaving already?”

He finally looked at you, his expression guarded. “Yeah.”

You stepped closer, crossing your arms. “Let’s hang out later.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon,” you pressed, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s been a shitty week. We could both use a distraction.”

Clay sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Later.”

“Promise?”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Yeah. Promise.”

You watched him leave, the uneasy feeling in your chest growing heavier as the door swung shut behind him. Eric reappeared at the front and you watched him carefully. Something was off, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know what it was.

xxx 🎶 My Disaster - Ocean Grove 🎶 xxx

The hallway outside Clay’s door felt colder than usual, and the stillness wrapped around you like a damp blanket. You hesitated before knocking, your knuckles hovering just above the wood. Part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer, that maybe you’d just head back to your place and avoid whatever this night might hold.

But you knocked anyway. There was no response.

“Clay?” you called softly, knocking again. Nothing.

After a long pause, you tried the doorknob. To your surprise, it turned, the door creaking open into the dim apartment.

The air hit you first—stale, with an acrid undercurrent that made your stomach tighten. The glow of a lamp cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the mess of clothes, empty bottles, and discarded takeout containers strewn across the floor. Your gaze darted toward the couch, and there he was.

Clay.

He was slumped sideways, his head resting on the armrest, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. For a moment, relief washed over you—at least he was breathing. But then you saw it: the needles, the crumpled foil, the burned spoon on the table in front of him.

Your throat tightened as the reality of the scene hit you like a punch to the gut.

“Clay,” you said again, louder this time as you crossed the room. He didn’t stir.

Kneeling beside him, you checked for signs of life—his pulse steady but weak under your fingers. You felt your chest tighten with a mix of anger, fear, and something else you couldn’t quite place. Disappointment? No, it wasn’t that. It was deeper—like you were watching him slip further away, and you didn’t know how to hold on.

“Goddammit,” you muttered under your breath.

Grabbing the blanket draped over the back of the couch, you carefully tucked it around him, doing your best to make him comfortable. His face was pale, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than ever. He looked smaller somehow—fragile in a way you weren’t used to seeing.

You sank onto the floor, leaning back against the couch as exhaustion weighed heavy on you. Reaching for the bong on the coffee table, you packed it with what little weed he had left, desperate for something to dull the ache in your chest. The smoke burned your lungs, but it grounded you, letting the tension in your body ease just enough to stop shaking.

For a while, you just sat there, staring at him. His face was slack, his mouth slightly open as he slept. It was a version of him you weren’t sure you recognized, and yet it felt like this was the real Clay—the one he worked so hard to hide.

Your thoughts spiraled as the minutes turned into hours.

Should you be scared? Angry? Both?

It didn’t matter. The anger felt hollow, and the fear was too big to face right now. All you could do was sit there, your fingers tracing patterns in the carpet as you waited for him to wake up.

And as the night wore on, the weight of the silence pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating. But you stayed. Because even if you didn’t know how to stop him from disappearing, you weren’t ready to let him go just yet.

When Clay started stirring, you were already watching him. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and unfocused, and for a second, he seemed disoriented. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and his stomach churned faintly—a combination he knew too well.

Then, as his gaze settled on you sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch, the corners of his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a faint, embarrassed smirk.

“You been sitting there all night?” His voice was rough, thick with sleep and whatever he’d used to get himself into this state.

You shrugged, taking a long drag from the bong before setting it down with a clink. “Didn’t exactly feel right leaving you like this.”

He’d spent most of his life perfecting the art of evasion, of keeping people at a distance. But there you were, watching him like you could see straight through the walls he put up.

He sat up slowly, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck. The blanket slipped off his shoulders, and you caught the brief flash of annoyance in his expression as he noticed it. He shifted in his seat, trying to pull himself together, but the haze of sleep still clung to him.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” you asked, keeping your tone as steady as you could manage.

Clay’s jaw tightened. “What what was about?”

You gestured toward the needles and foil on the table, your stomach knotting as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Don’t play dumb, Clay. I’m not an idiot.”

He let out a sharp exhale, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally, his voice low and defensive. “It’s just… something I do sometimes. To take the edge off.”

You raised an eyebrow, your disbelief clear. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s not like I’m shooting up every day,” he snapped, his frustration bleeding through. “I’ve got it under control.” It wasn’t you he was annoyed at—it was himself, for being careless enough to let you see this side of him. For letting you care.

Your heart twisted at the lie, the casual way he tried to brush it off like it was nothing. “Clay, come on,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “That I’m some kind of junkie? That I can’t handle my shit?”

“I want you to be honest,” you shot back.

“I am being honest,” he said, his voice hardening. “It’s not a problem. It’s just… a release. Everyone’s got their thing, right?”

He hated himself even as the words left his mouth, hated the way they sounded like something his dad might’ve said. But he didn’t know how else to protect himself. Letting you in meant letting you see all the ugly parts of him, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

You stared at him, searching his face for some hint of the truth. But he was shutting down, retreating behind that wall he always built whenever you got too close. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes flicked away from yours.

After a long pause, you stood up, brushing off your hands. “Fine,” you said quietly, grabbing your things.

His head snapped up, his expression caught somewhere between anger and surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not buying it, but I’m not gonna argue with a wall.” Before he could respond, you turned and left, the sound of the door closing behind you echoing in the quiet apartment.

xxx 🎶 My Way - Limp Bizkit 🎶 xxxx

The next day, the tattoo shop was buzzing with the chaos of flash week, but your focus was razor-sharp. When you finally caught Eric alone in the back, his usual quiet demeanor didn’t stop you from cornering him.

“We need to talk,” you said, arms crossed as you blocked his path.

Eric raised an eyebrow, looking more annoyed than surprised. “About what?”

“Clay,” you said bluntly. “You’re not gonna supply him that shit anymore.”

He gave you a long, measured look before leaning against the counter. “Not my business what he does with his money,” he said coolly.

“I’m telling you to back off.” You shot back, your tone cutting.

Eric sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Look, I’m not his babysitter. If he wants to buy, he’ll find someone else. You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, your voice steady. “But I’ll be damned if he’s coming to one of my coworkers for his fix.”

Eric’s expression hardened. “You know, for someone who works with needles all day, you sure like to play moral high ground.”

You stepped closer, your jaw tight. “Cut. Him. Off.” You warned slowly. “If you don’t, I’ll make damn sure you regret it.” The harsh tone of your voice felt foreign, but the protectiveness inside you didn’t.

He glared at you, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he didn’t argue.

[startseeingstars]

Under the Needle - Clay Roach (City on a Hill)

CH08 🎶 Hanging By A Moment - Lifehouse 🎶

The thumping bassline still pulsed through your veins as Clay leaned close and muttered into your ear, “C’mon, need a drink.” His hand found yours, calloused fingers wrapping around yours briefly as he led you through the crowd.

At the bar, the neon lights illuminated his sharp features as he nodded for you to order. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked, feigning indifference but glancing at you with something that looked suspiciously like curiosity.

You grinned mischievously. “Tequila shots.”

Clay groaned. “Of course. You sure you’re ready for that?”

“I can handle it, Trouble,” you motioned for the bartender, “Can you?” A smirk crept onto your lips and Clay’s heart swelled.

The shots arrived, accompanied by lime wedges and a small bowl of salt. You licked a small spot on the back of your hand and sprinkled a pinch onto it. Clay gave you a puzzled look and you rolled your eyes, taking his hand and licking it for him before sprinkling salt over the wet patch.

He smirked, though he did seem a little surprised. “I got something else you can lick, dollface.” He winked cheekily at you and you rolled your eyes, despite feeling a warmth spread in your stomach.

The mixture of salt and tequila warmed your tongue and you chased it with the tang of the lime. Clay followed your lead, his face twisting in mild disgust as the liquor burned its way down his throat.

“Not bad,” you teased, watching as he shook his head and wiped at his lips.

“Not good,” he replied dryly, but his lips quirked up at the corners.

Your eyes flickered to the corner of his mouth, catching the faint glimmer of leftover salt. Without thinking, you reached up, your thumb brushing against his lips to wipe it away. The touch was fleeting, but it left a charge in its wake, and for a moment, Clay just stared at you, his expression unreadable.

“Got it,” you murmured, dropping your hand.

Before Clay could say anything, a voice interrupted the moment. “Hey, there you are!”

You turned to see the guy from earlier—tall, confident, and flashing a grin that would’ve knocked most people off their feet. He stepped up beside you, completely ignoring Clay, and leaned in slightly. “I’ve been looking for you. Can I get your number now?”

Clay’s jaw tightened, and you felt the shift in his energy immediately, the tension radiating off him like a second skin.

You hesitated, glancing back at Clay, who was doing his best to look uninterested, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his empty glass. Swallowing your nerves, you rattled off a number. A fake one. But Clay didn’t know that.

“Thanks,” the guy said, flashing you one last grin before disappearing into the crowd.

When you turned back to Clay, his expression was hard, his eyes cold in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You done?” he asked, his tone sharp, almost cutting.

“Clay, it’s not—”

“Save it.” He shoved the glass onto the counter, the sound sharp against the music. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the club.

Your heart sank, guilt and frustration warring inside you as you hurried after him. The cool night air hit you like a slap, but Clay was already halfway down the street, his shoulders hunched and fists buried in his jacket pockets.

“Clay!” you called, jogging to catch up. He didn’t slow down.

You struggled to keep up with his pace in the damned heels, the clicking of your steps echoing faintly in the quiet streets. You cursed yourself for not just wearing your Converse as you hurried after him. Clay stormed ahead, his figure tense under the glow of the streetlights, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets.

By the time you both reached the apartment building, your feet were aching, but you managed to slip into the elevator just before the doors slid shut. The air between you was suffocating, heavy with unspoken words and emotions that neither of you seemed ready to confront.

Clay stood rigidly in the corner, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the floor, while you leaned against the wall, struggling to catch your breath. The hum of the elevator filled the silence, punctuated only by the sound of your labored breathing.

When the doors jolted open, he bolted, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hallway.

"Clay," you called after him, softer this time, desperate.

He stopped abruptly, your voice anchoring him in place. When you caught up, you grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn. His expression was a storm—anger, frustration, and something deeper swirling just beneath the surface.

"What?" he snapped, though his voice cracked slightly at the edge.

"It wasn't real," you said hurriedly, the words tumbling out before you could lose your nerve. "I gave him a fake number."

His jaw worked, the muscle ticking as he stared at you, searching your face for any hint of deceit. His laugh came sharp and bitter, cutting through the silence. "Why'd you even bother with me? Seems like you've got plenty of options."

"It's not like that," you insisted, stepping closer, your voice trembling. "You think I'd leave with some random guy?"

He hesitated, his eyes flickering with something vulnerable, but then he shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter now, thick with frustration. "I don't know what the hell you're doing, or what we're doing. But I know l'm not gonna stand there and watch you give him your number."

His words struck you, a raw confession that left you reeling. For a moment, you stood there, stunned. Then, before you could stop yourself, the question spilled out: "Do you want me?"

Clay's head dipped slightly, his lips parting as if to respond, but nothing came. He shook his head, the motion more of disbelief than denial, and you felt your heart twist painfully.

Still, something in his silence emboldened you. You stepped closer, closing the space between you, your chest tightening with every inch. Your hands trembled as they rose to cup his face, your fingertips grazing along his jaw.

His eyes locked on yours, wide and uncertain, but he didn't move away. Slowly, you leaned up, pressing your lips to his, featherlight, afraid he might push you away.

For a moment, he froze, his body tense under your touch. You started to pull back, mortified, when his hands suddenly found your waist, strong and steady. His breath hitched, and then he kissed you back, almost fiercely, like a dam breaking after years of pressure.

The kiss deepened, urgent and unrestrained, and it left your head spinning. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he pulled you closer, his hands anchoring you to him like you might disappear.

Stumbling backward, you managed to reach your door. Your lips barely parted as you fumbled with your keys, your breath mingling with his, tasting the smoky bitterness of whiskey still lingering on his tongue.

"Give me that," he muttered against your lips, taking the key from your shaking hands. His impatience was palpable as he shoved it into the lock, the door swinging open and hitting the wall with a thud.

You stepped inside, barely registering the space before turning back to him. He was already there, closing the door behind him and pressing you against it. His body was warm and solid against yours, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that left you achingly breathless.

A small gasp left you as his hands slid to your hips, holding you firmly in place. For a brief moment, he paused, his forehead resting against yours as he seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. But the hesitation faded quickly, replaced by a fire that burned away whatever walls he had left.

"Fuck it," he murmured, his voice low and rough, before capturing your lips again, damning all consequences.

Your hands instinctively tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Clay let himself lean into it—into you. His tongue traced your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and you met him with the same fiery energy.

When you bit down gently on his lip, it earned a low grunt from him that sent a shiver down your spine. A warning of what was to come.

Firm hands slid down your waist and over your hips, pausing to grip your ass through the slick leather of your skirt. The strength in his touch had you gasping softly, and for a moment, all you could think about was him.

Clay let himself get lost in the heat of it all—the way your body moved under his hands, the quiet sounds you made against his lips, your scent—a delicious mixture of your perfume, sweat and his own cologne, marking you as his.

He pulled back, lips swollen and breathing heavy as he took your hand.

Without a word, he guided you toward your bedroom. His grip was firm but careful, as if giving you a chance to pull away if you wanted.

Your heart pounded harder with every step, your thoughts swirling. You wanted this— wanted him—but a pang of unease stirred beneath the heat coursing through your veins.

Clay turned to you when you reached the edge of your bed, his eyes dark with want as he pulled you down to meet him on your mattress.

His lips connected with yours again, and though the warm spark was still there, there was a shift in your chest, muting the intensity. Your thoughts began to wander, your heart continued to race, but took on a different undertone—one of fear, of betrayal.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, but when your body stiffened more, your breath shaky in a way that felt wrong, it hit him like a warning siren. His body became rigid, and he pulled apart from you.

He sat up, running a hand down his face to ground himself. “What is it?” he asked, voice clipped, more from the flood of emotions crashing over him than any real anger.

You sat up too, your arms wrapping protectively around yourself as if trying to shield your emotions from him. “I—I can’t,” you stammered, not meeting his eyes. “I thought I could, but I...”

His jaw clenched, and he let out a slow breath, dragging his hand down his mouth as he processed your words. Frustration bubbled beneath his skin—not at you, but at himself for letting it get this far, for letting his guard down. For thinking, even for a second, that this could be something more than just cones and flirting.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” His tone came out harsher than he intended, and he winced internally, forcing himself to dial it back. “Just… tell me what’s going on.”

You turned to face him, and the raw vulnerability in your eyes made his frustration crumble into guilt and he turned cold. It wasn't rejection, not really. It was something deeper, heavier-like you were carrying a weight he didn't understand.

"I haven't been with anyone since Will," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Of course. Will. He'd heard bits and pieces, knew the guy was gone, knew it had been hard on you. But hearing it now, in this context, made something ache in his chest he couldn't quite name. And yet, it didn’t do much to settle the mess of emotions swirling inside him. Maybe it was just his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans, but his head felt like a thousand voices were talking at once.

“Right.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Yeah. Okay. Makes sense.”

You flinched slightly at his tone, and he cursed himself silently, raking a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said, softer now, though the frustration still lingered in his chest, gnawing at him. “I get it. I do. But you could’ve just… said something earlier.”

“I thought I was ready,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I thought I could do this, but I just—”

“Yeah, I get it,” he cut in, not wanting to hear more. The way you looked at him, like you were bracing for him to lash out or say something cruel, made him feel like an asshole. He wasn't mad—not at you. Just at himself, for letting this happen, for letting himself care this much in the first place.

He stood abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You need space, I’ll give you space.”

“Clay, wait,” you said quickly, your voice almost pleading. He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, his expression a mix of frustration and something softer. “Can you… just stay? Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

He hesitated, the tension in his jaw relaxing slightly. Silently, he nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

He slid onto the bed beside you, awkward at first as he lay stiffly on his back. You curled into his side cautiously, your head resting against his chest. For a moment, he didn’t move, his heart racing under your touch. But eventually, he wrapped an arm around you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

Neither of you spoke, the weight of the night settling between you. Slowly, your breathing evened out, and he felt your body relax against him. Your heart still hammering from the Molly, you took comfort in him holding you in a way you hadn’t realised you’d needed.

Clay stared at the ceiling, his thoughts tangled and heavy, but he didn’t move. He didn’t let go. All he could feel was the tension in his chest—the mix of wanting you and knowing he'd already let himself fall further than he should've.

The room was still, except for the faint sound of cars passing in the distance. You lay against Clay’s chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. But his body wasn’t fully relaxed—his fingers rested on your arm, unmoving, and every so often you felt him shift slightly.

“You’re awake,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice rough, like gravel. “Can’t sleep.”

You stayed quiet for a beat, unsure if it was the Molly, the tension, or something else keeping him awake. “Me neither,” you admitted finally, glancing up at him.

His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He didn’t say anything, and for a moment you thought maybe he wouldn’t. But then he let out a breath, slow and heavy, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“This isn’t really… my thing,” he muttered.

You furrowed your brow. “What isn’t?”

He hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against your arm. “This. Lying here. Talking. Whatever this is.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice even. “Why not?”

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a grimace. “I just don’t… do this. Never have. I mean, I don’t let things get…” He trailed off, his voice dropping to a mutter. “Close.”

You stayed quiet, letting the words hang in the air. Clay didn’t open up often, and you weren’t about to risk scaring him off by pushing.

“Feels messy,” he said finally, like the words had been dragged out of him.

“Messy doesn’t mean bad,” you said gently, watching him carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You don’t know me that well if you think I’m built for this kind of messy.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, but you pressed on, feeling a pull to understand him better. “You’ve never let anyone in? Not once?”

His eyes flicked to you, and for a split second, you thought he might say something real. But instead, he shrugged, his tone carefully detached. “Not worth the trouble.”

You frowned, propping yourself up slightly. “Clay…”

He shook his head. “Forget it. You don’t have to psychoanalyze me, alright?”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy, until he broke it with a low murmur. “What about you?”

“Me?” you echoed.

“Yeah.” His gaze was steady, but there was something guarded behind it. “Why haven’t you… been with anyone. Since Will.”

The question hit like a punch to the gut, even though you’d known it might come up someday. You glanced down, your fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “It’s… complicated,” you said softly.

Clay didn’t push, but his eyes stayed on you, waiting.

“I guess I just couldn’t handle the idea of being with someone else,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “It made me feel… wrong. Like I’d be betraying him, or… I don’t know.”

He shifted slightly beneath you, his hand brushing against your arm. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep you grounded.

“And now?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Now… it feels different,” you said carefully, your voice trembling just slightly. “Like maybe I don’t want to be alone forever.”

He stayed quiet, his eyes searching yours. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker there—something unsure, maybe even scared. But then he looked away, his jaw tightening again.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally. “Things change.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. You lay back down, resting your head against him again, and his arm tightened around you just slightly. His mind was torn.

The silence between you wasn’t as heavy this time, but you both stayed awake, lost in your own thoughts, the weight of what had been said—and what hadn’t—lingering in the air.

[startseeingstars]

Snow Angel Daddy 🩶

From Kate’s IG story x