Evan shot Vanessa a look—half rage, half pleading. "You said you'd buy it."
"I will," she said. "But you listen to me. You stay clean every other day. You don't hurt yourself. You don't hurt me."
He stood up, fists trembling. For a second, the air was charged, electric. Then his shoulders sagged, the fight leaking out of him. He sat back down, gripping his head. "You don't understand what it feels like," he muttered.
Vanessa came closer, setting the coffee on the table. "I don't have to understand it," she said quietly. "I just have to make sure you come out of it alive."
There were nights when he'd lose it—throw things, scream, lash out at her when the craving crawled up his spine and made him shake. She never hit back. Never left. Just picked herself up, stayed close, and waited for him to stop.
