Prologue
Addy's POV
Falling in love during recovery was never part of the plan. In truth, love of any kind wasn’t supposed to be. I wasn’t meant to fall—especially not for someone like him.
I had been sober for six months when he finally walked into one of our meetings. For him, it wasn’t voluntary—it was court-mandated. He’d been high when he caused a car accident. He was the driver.
That day happened to be the same day I received my six-month chip—the longest stretch of sobriety I’d ever managed.
My addiction was Oxy.
I was a gymnast once, and when I injured my back during a performance, I needed surgery. The doctors prescribed Oxy to dull the pain. It worked—maybe a little too well.
When the prescriptions stopped, I didn’t. I found other ways to get it—illegal, dangerous ways.
Those choices didn’t just end my shot at the Olympics. They destroyed my friendships, shattered my family ties, and nearly took my life.
There was something about him—an undeniable pull, magnetic and constant. I couldn’t explain why, out of everyone in that room, he was the one who stirred something inside me, something I thought had long since died. But he did. And now, during meetings, I’d catch myself sneaking glances at him from the corner of my eye.
He was tall—climb-me-like-a-tree tall—with silver-grey eyes that looked like they’d seen too much, and warm chestnut hair that fell carelessly over his forehead.
He hadn’t shared yet. Not once. That alone made him a mystery. I couldn’t go a single day without being called on to spill my guts, so why was he the exception? What made him so untouchable? What story was he hiding?
It went on like that for a week and a half—me stealing glances, him staying silent—until one afternoon, just after the meeting ended and I made my way over to the stale donut tray, he finally approached.
“Did you know that stare is rude?” he murmured, leaning in close—too close. “Screams stalker and predator behavior, love.”
He left a moment later, and I was left standing in the hallway of the rec center, trying to make sense of the stranger I had just met.
That became our rhythm for the next month—brief glances, the occasional brush of conversation, and the quiet tension that buzzed beneath it all.
Then, one day, he stopped showing up. So did our meeting leader.
It didn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place. He wasn’t an addict. He was a cop. And our leader? Just another criminal he was there to catch.
I should’ve known better. Addicts don’t get love stories. We don’t get happy endings. Our lives aren’t built for that kind of hope.
I found another meeting. We all did.
I stayed in my little bubble, going through the motions, pretending my life was stable. That maybe—just maybe—I could crawl out of the wreckage and feel whole again. Spoiler: I never did. The wreckage simply became home.
A year into sobriety, I stood in court. My probation ended, and the judge looked down at me like I was a charity case and said he hoped to never see me again.
I nodded. Silent. Detached.
Six months later, I wasn’t just attending meetings—I was running them. A rehab center had taken me in, and I gave back where I could. Setting up chairs. Making space for others to speak. Pretending I had any right to guide them.
I was prepping the room, straightening a crooked row of folding chairs, when a knock echoed against the doorframe.
“Need any help, love?”
That voice.
It hit me like a drug I hadn’t tasted in years. Instant. Sharp. Dangerous.
I turned, pulse spiking against my will.
There he was.
Shorter hair. Same silver eyes. Same smug mouth that always looked like it was about to ruin you. He wore a basic black T-shirt and sweats like he didn’t still haunt the darkest part of my memory.
He looked exactly like the last day I saw him. The day I realized he was a lie.
The only difference?
Now I hated him.
“No,” I said, colder than the air between us.
He didn’t flinch. Just walked in like he belonged, like I hadn’t spent the last year scrubbing him from my bloodstream.
“Caleb,” he said, as if I ever asked.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
He started helping anyway. Moving chairs like I hadn’t just told him to leave.
I watched him, venom on the edge of my tongue. “Do you always ignore women when they tell you to back off?” I asked, my voice like ice. “Or is it just addicts? You know—we’re all pathological liars, right?”
He paused, looking at me like he saw everything and nothing at all. And for a second, I remembered what it felt like to want him.
And then I remembered how it felt to be used.
Once the chairs were arranged in a circle, I moved on to the pastries—store-bought but arranged like I gave a damn—and poured the coffee I’d brewed at home, too stubborn to trust the center’s burnt excuse for caffeine.
I ignored him.
He watched me.
“I came to apologize,” he said finally.
“You’re a day late and a dollar short,” I snapped, shooting him a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
My eyes, usually amber, had darkened—whiskey turned to molasses. I hoped he caught the shift. I hoped it hurt.
But of course, he kept talking.
Talking like I hadn’t spent months hating him in silence. Like his presence wasn’t scraping open every half-healed wound.
Until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I don’t care, Caleb,” I cut in, voice flat but laced with venom.
And that much was true.
I didn’t care about his apologies, his explanations, or whatever version of the truth he was trying to sell me now.
They were just words. Empty, hollow words from a man who once played addict like it was a role—and I was the collateral damage in his performance.
He’d never cared about anything but the case.
Certainly not me.
