#13rw

It was a normal afternoon at the Jensen house, which meant quiet—until it wasn’t.

In the backhouse, Justin and Y/N were supposed to be studying. For about ten minutes, they actually were. But math had turned into laughter, laughter had turned into teasing, and teasing had turned into the kind of kissing that made time disappear.

They were so caught up they didn’t notice Clay walking up the path outside. He’d forgotten his notebook and figured he’d grab it before heading back out. As he rounded the corner, he glanced toward the window—then stopped dead.

Inside, someone was definitely making out. Again.

Clay groaned under his breath. “Seriously, Justin? Again?”

He couldn’t see who the girl was—just Justin, clearly on top of someone, shirt a little wrinkled, hair completely ruined. Clay rolled his eyes, muttering, “Unbelievable.” Then he knocked loudly on the door.

“Comin’ in,” he called, voice full of warning. “Hopefully you ain’t making out with someone this time.”

Inside, Justin shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. “Oh, crap.”

Y/N’s heart jumped. “Who is it?”

“Clay,” Justin hissed. “I’m dead. He’s gonna kill me.”

“Act normal,” she whispered, grabbing the nearest open notebook.

Clay pushed open the door, eyebrows already raised. Justin was sitting at the desk, pencil in hand like he’d been mid-equation his entire life. Y/N sat next to him, expression innocent enough to win an Oscar.

“No making out,” Justin said quickly, voice way too chipper. “Just studying. With Y/N.”

Clay started to reply, but then his eyes caught up with his brain. He blinked once. Twice. Then it hit him.

The only girl in the room… was his sister.

His whole face changed—confusion melting into dawning horror. “Wait.” He pointed between them. “You were… you were making out with—no. No, no, no. My sister? Come on, bro!”

Justin’s mouth opened and closed, completely useless. “I—I didn’t know you were coming back!”

“That’s your excuse?” Clay demanded. “You didn’t know I’d see you swapping spit with my sister?”

Y/N groaned. “Clay, stop being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m traumatized!”

Justin stood up fast, hands raised like he was facing a cop. “Clay, man, I’m sorry. I swear it’s not—well, okay, it is what it looked like, but it’s not some—”

“Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence,” Clay warned, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t need details.”

Y/N tried not to laugh, which only made Clay look even more pained. “This is unreal,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “My best friend. My sister.”

“I really like her,” Justin blurted, desperate. “I wasn’t trying to sneak around. It just—happened.”

Clay glared at him, but there wasn’t much real anger left—just exasperation. “You two couldn’t have just said something? Saved me from walking in on that horror show?”

Justin winced. “Yeah. Not my proudest moment.”

“Understatement of the year.” Clay sighed, finally dropping onto the arm of the couch. “Whatever. You’re both adults, I guess. Just… not in front of me. Ever. Again.”

Justin nodded instantly. “Absolutely. Never again. Total agreement.”

“Good.” Clay pointed toward the table. “Now actually do some math, so the next time I see you together I don’t have to bleach my eyes.”

Y/N snorted; Justin gave a nervous laugh that sounded more like relief.

As Clay left, still muttering “my sister” under his breath, Justin exhaled and slumped back in the chair. “That could’ve been worse,” he said quietly.

Y/N smirked. “How?”

“He didn’t swing.”

She laughed. “Progress, Foley.”

The engine of Clay’s old car hummed softly as it pulled up to the community center on the quieter side of town. Rain was misting against the windshield, the kind of gray drizzle that made everything feel heavier than it already was. Justin Foley sat in the passenger seat, hood up, jaw tight, fingers drumming restlessly against his knee.

“You sure you don’t want me to pick you up?” Clay asked, glancing over at him. His voice was calm, the way it always got when he was trying not to push too hard. “It’s no problem. Mom and Dad—”

“Nah, I’m good,” Justin cut him off quickly, forcing a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t wanna keep bothering Matt and Lainie. They’ve already done too much. I’ll walk or catch the bus or whatever. Seriously, Jensen. I got it.”

Clay studied him for a second, that familiar worried crease between his brows. “Alright. But text me if you change your mind. And… hey,” he added softer, “you’re doing good, man. Showing up. That counts.”

Justin gave a short nod, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.” He grabbed the door handle before the moment could get any more uncomfortable. “See you later.”

He stepped out into the light rain and pulled his hood lower, shoulders hunched against the cold. The community center’s fluorescent lights glowed through the foggy glass doors like some kind of reluctant beacon.

Group therapy. Another fucking circle of people sharing their damage. He hated it. But he kept coming. Because staying clean was the only thing he had left to offer the Jensens. The only thing he had left to offer anyone.

Justin pushed the door open, the warm air and faint smell of cheap coffee hitting him immediately. Chairs were already arranged in a loose circle. A few familiar faces nodded at him. He gave the bare minimum acknowledgment and dropped into an empty seat, arms crossed tight over his chest.

That’s when he noticed you.

You were sitting almost directly across from him, knees pulled up slightly, sleeves tugged down over your hands like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your eyes met his for half a second—tired, guarded, but not empty. Something in them made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t name.

He looked away fast, staring at the scuffed floor instead.

“Don’t even think about it, Foley,” he told himself. “You don’t get to want things. Not anymore. Not after what you let happen to Jess.”

The group leader started talking, but Justin’s mind was already drifting. Guilt sat heavy in his stomach like it always did. Bryce. Jessica. Everything he’d ignored, everything he’d enabled. He didn’t deserve to be here. He sure as hell didn’t deserve the soft, curious glance you kept sending his way when you thought he wasn’t looking.

The group leader, a calm middle-aged woman named Denise with kind eyes and a voice that never rose above a gentle volume, cleared her throat. The circle settled. A few people shifted in their plastic chairs. The rain tapped steadily against the windows, like it was trying to get in.

“Alright, let’s begin,” Denise said. “For anyone new or who needs a refresher… this is a safe space. No judgment. We share what we’re comfortable sharing. Who wants to start?”

Silence stretched for a long moment. Then Justin exhaled sharply through his nose and sat up a little straighter, like he was forcing himself to rip off a bandage.

“I’ll go,” he muttered. His voice was rough, low, like it hurt to speak. “I’m Justin. I’ve been coming for a few weeks now. I’m… an addict. Heroin, mostly. Been clean for seventy-three days.” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “Some days it feels like forever. Some days it feels like I’m about to throw it all away because I deserve to.”

He paused. The room was completely quiet except for the rain.

“I did a lot of fucked up shit before I got clean. Hurt people who didn’t deserve it. Let terrible things happen to someone I cared about because I was too much of a coward to stop it.” His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “I still see her face every night. Jessica. What Bryce did to her… I could’ve stopped it. I should’ve. But I didn’t. So yeah. That’s why I’m here. Trying to figure out if someone like me even gets a second chance.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He quickly looked down again, jaw locked tight like he was holding back everything else.

Denise gave him a small, understanding nod. “Thank you, Justin. That took courage.”

Then her gaze moved gently across the circle and landed on you.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your palms were clammy. The sleeves of your oversized hoodie were pulled all the way over your hands, hiding the fresh scars and the hospital band you still hadn’t found the strength to cut off. You had only been out of the psych ward for four days. Four days since you woke up in that sterile room with tubes in your arm and your mother crying beside the bed.

You felt Justin’s eyes on you too, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

“I’m… Y/N,” you whispered. Your voice was hoarse, barely above a breath. You cleared your throat and tried again. “This is my first time here. I got out of the psych ward four days ago. I… I tried to kill myself two weeks ago.”

The words hung in the air like broken glass. Someone across the circle inhaled sharply.

“I took a bunch of pills,” you continued, eyes burning as tears welled up fast. “I didn’t write a note. I just… wanted it to be quiet. I was so tired of feeling like a burden. Tired of waking up every day and pretending I was okay when everything inside me was screaming.” A tear slipped down your cheek and you angrily wiped it away with your sleeve. “They found me in time. Now I’m here. And I don’t know if I even want to stay alive most days, but I’m trying. For my family. For… whatever’s left of me.”

Your voice broke completely on the last sentence. You curled in on yourself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs you were desperately trying to contain. The pain was still so raw — the emptiness, the shame, the terrifying realization that you had almost succeeded.

Justin didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. For the first time in months, someone else’s pain felt heavier than his own in that moment.

Denise spoke softly. “Thank you for sharing that, Y/N. Both of you. This is the hardest part — saying it out loud. But you’re here. That matters.”

You kept your head down, tears dripping onto your hoodie. You didn’t notice how Justin’s fists slowly unclenched, or how his eyes stayed on you longer than they should have, a quiet storm of guilt, recognition, and something dangerously close to understanding building behind them.

The session dragged on for another forty minutes, voices rising and falling like waves. You barely heard most of it. Your mind kept replaying your own words on loop — I tried to kill myself — and the way they had sounded out loud. Small. Pathetic. Real.

When Denise finally said, “That’s all for today. Same time next week,” the circle broke. People stood, some hugging, others grabbing coffee from the crappy machine in the corner. You stayed seated for a moment, trying to pull yourself together before facing the rain outside.

You were wiping your eyes with your sleeve when a pair of beat-up sneakers stopped in front of you.

“Hey.”

The voice was low and hesitant. You looked up slowly.

Justin stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched like he was ready to bolt at any second. Up close he looked even more exhausted than he had from across the circle — dark circles under sharp blue eyes, a fading bruise on his jaw, and that permanent look of someone carrying ghosts.

“I’m Justin,” he said, even though he’d already introduced himself to the group. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You nodded, surprised he’d approached. Most people avoided the new girl who’d just admitted she tried to off herself.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice still raw. “That was… a lot. Sorry if it was too heavy for my first time.”

Justin let out a short, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Nah. This whole room is heavy. You were honest. That’s more than most people are.” He paused, glancing toward the window where the rain had gotten heavier. “You kinda… reminded me of someone. The way you said it. Straight. No bullshit. Like you were tired of pretending.”

You tilted your head slightly, waiting.

He swallowed. “There was this girl… Hannah. She was in my school. She was hurting really bad and I… I didn’t see it. Or maybe I did and I was too busy with my own shit.” His voice dropped even lower. “She ended up killing herself. And I keep thinking if someone had just listened… properly listened… maybe it would’ve been different.”

The pain in his eyes was so naked it made your chest ache. You saw the guilt there, raw and bleeding, the same kind you carried about your own family finding you barely alive.

“I’m really sorry,” you said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”

Justin shrugged like it didn’t matter, but his jaw flexed. “Yeah. Life’s brutal.” He looked at you again, really looked, and for a second his expression softened. “You just got out, huh? Psych ward?”

You tugged your sleeves further down over your wrists out of habit. “Four days ago. Still feels like I’m half there. Everything’s too loud. Too bright. And too… much.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “First weeks are hell. Everything makes you want to use or… whatever your thing is.” He caught himself and gave a small, awkward smile. “Sorry. Not trying to assume.”

You managed a tiny smile back. It felt strange on your face. “It’s okay. I get it. We’re both here because we’re messes, right?”

Justin huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Big fucking messes.” He shifted on his feet, clearly not used to talking this much after group. “Look… I know we don’t know each other, but if you ever feel like the noise is getting too loud… you can sit next to me next session. Or whatever. No pressure.”

For the first time since you’d left the hospital, something warm flickered in your chest. Not hope exactly. Just… recognition.

“Thanks, Justin,” you said softly, meaning it. “I might take you up on that.”

He gave you one last look — the kind that lingered half a second too long — before nodding and pulling his hood up.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N.”

Then he turned and walked toward the door, shoulders still heavy, but he glanced back once before stepping into the rain.

Over the next few weeks, the two of you fell into a quiet rhythm.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, you arrived a little early and found Justin already there, saving the seat next to him with his hoodie thrown over the back of the plastic chair. At first it was just small nods and hesitant “hey”s. Then it became actual conversations before the circle started and during the coffee break in the middle.

You learned that Justin loved basketball but hadn’t played in months. He learned that you used to draw a lot before everything went dark, and that you were trying to pick it up again even if your hands still shook sometimes.

“You any good?” he asked one afternoon during break, leaning against the wall with a terrible cup of coffee in his hands.

“Used to be,” you replied, shrugging. “Now everything I draw looks… heavy. Like it has shadows it shouldn’t.”

Justin gave a small understanding smile. “Yeah. I get that.”

He never asked why you tried to end it. You never asked him about the girl named Hannah or the guilt that sometimes made his eyes go distant during group. It was an unspoken rule everyone in the room seemed to follow outside the circle: Don’t dig. Don’t define people by their worst days.

Instead, you talked about safe things.

You complained about the shitty hospital food you still had dreams about. He told you funny (but harmless) stories about living with the Jensens — how Clay overthinks everything and how Lainie always tries to make him eat vegetables like he’s twelve. You laughed for the first time in months when he imitated Clay’s worried face.

Another session, you brought two sketchbooks — one for you, one cheap one you bought for him after he mentioned wanting to try drawing to keep his hands busy.

“You don’t have to use it,” you said quickly, embarrassed. “I just thought… maybe it beats staring at the wall when the cravings hit.”

Justin stared at the sketchbook like it was something precious. His fingers brushed yours when he took it, and he cleared his throat.

“Thanks, Y/N. For real.”

From then on, sometimes during the ten-minute break you’d sit together quietly drawing. He was terrible at it, all shaky lines and messy shapes, but he kept trying. You drew soft things — flowers, hands, the rain against the window. He drew basketball courts and broken sneakers. Neither of you commented on what the other drew. It was just… nice. Normal.

Week after week, the conversations grew longer. You started waiting for each other after group. Sometimes you’d walk together to the bus stop, shoulders bumping when the sidewalk got narrow, talking about music, movies, or the ridiculous rules at Liberty High that he still remembered.

One rainy Thursday, after a particularly heavy group session where multiple people had cried, you both stood under the narrow overhang outside the center, waiting for the rain to ease up.

Justin glanced at you. “You doing okay? Today was rough.”

You nodded slowly, arms wrapped around yourself. “Yeah. Some days I still feel like I belong back in the ward. Like I’m faking being a person.” You paused. “But coming here helps. And… talking to you helps too.”

He looked away, jaw tight for a second, then back at you with something softer in his eyes.

“Same,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t think I’d make a friend in this place. Figured I’d just sit here hating myself for an hour twice a week.”

You bumped your shoulder against his lightly. “Well, you’re stuck with me now, Foley.”

A small, genuine smile broke across his face — the first real one you’d seen. It made your chest feel warm in a way you hadn’t felt since before the psych ward.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I am.”

The rain had finally stopped by the time the session ended, leaving the streets wet and shining under the streetlights. Justin stood outside the community center for a few minutes, hands in his pockets, staring at his phone. Then he texted Clay.

>Hey. You free to pick me up?

Fifteen minutes later, Clay’s familiar car pulled up. Justin slid into the passenger seat without a word, buckling in and leaning his head back against the headrest.

Clay waited until they were a few blocks away before speaking.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing sideways. “You’re quiet. Quieter than usual, I mean.”

Justin didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window at the passing lights, throat tight. The words had been sitting on his chest for days, getting heavier every time he saw you smile at him during break, every time your sleeves brushed when you sat next to each other.

“I think I’m fucked, Jensen,” he finally muttered.

Clay’s eyebrows shot up. “What happened? Did something go wrong in group?”

Justin let out a shaky breath and rubbed his face with both hands. “There’s this girl. Y/N. She’s new. Same group as me.”

He went quiet again for a long moment, then continued, voice rough.

“I’m in love with her, man. Like… actually in love. I’ve never felt this shit before. Not like this.” His laugh was bitter. “She’s been through hell. Got out of the psych ward not long ago. Tried to… you know. And she’s still showing up. Still trying. Still smiling at my shitty drawings like they’re something special.”

Clay stayed silent, listening, eyes on the road.

“And the fucked up part?” Justin’s voice cracked. “I know I don’t deserve her. Not even close. After everything I did… after Jessica, after Bryce, after all the ways I ruined people… I’m supposed to just get to have something good? Someone good?” He shook his head, eyes burning. “I keep thinking if she knew the whole truth, she’d run. And she should.”

Clay was quiet for almost a full minute, processing. Then he sighed.

“You know I’m complete shit at giving love advice, right?” he said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I overthink everything. I push people away. I’m a mess.”

Justin huffed a weak laugh.

“But…” Clay continued, more seriously, “if you’re really feeling this, the best thing you can do is talk to her. Not dump everything at once, but… be honest. About how you feel. About why you think you don’t deserve it. She’s in that group too. She gets pain. She gets guilt. Maybe she needs to hear that she’s not the only one scared of wanting something good.”

Justin stared at the dashboard, jaw tight. “What if she realizes I’m right? That I’m too broken?”

“Then it’ll hurt like hell,” Clay said honestly. “But keeping it inside is just another way of punishing yourself. And from what you’ve told me… she sounds like she’s fighting really hard to not punish herself anymore. Maybe you two could fight for each other instead.”

Justin didn’t say anything else the rest of the ride. But when Clay pulled into the driveway, Justin lingered in the seat for a second.

“Thanks, Clay,” he said quietly. “For picking me up. And… for listening.”

Clay nodded. “Anytime. And Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“You deserve good things too. It’s gonna take time for you to believe that. But you do.”

Justin gave a small nod and got out of the car, the weight in his chest somehow both heavier and a little lighter at the same time.

He already knew what he wanted to do next. He just didn’t know if he was brave enough yet.

The Thursday session felt different.

The air in the community center was warmer, or maybe it was just you. Your hands trembled slightly as you sat next to Justin like always, but this time your knee kept bouncing under the table during the break. Denise had pulled you aside before the circle started and quietly told you the good news: your risk level had been lowered. Not gone. Not fixed. But lowered.

It was the first real win since you got out of the psych ward.

When the session ended and people started gathering their things, you stayed seated. Justin lingered too, like he always did lately, pretending to check his phone but really waiting for you.

You took a deep breath, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Hey, Justin?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. You stared at your sleeves instead of his face.

He looked up immediately. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, cheeks already burning. “Um… I got some news today. My risk level got downgraded. It’s… it’s not much, but it’s something. The first time I’ve felt like maybe I’m moving forward instead of just… surviving.”

A soft, genuine smile broke across Justin’s face. “That’s really good, Y/N. Seriously. You should be proud of that.”

You nodded, biting your lip. The next words got stuck in your throat for a second.

“So… I was thinking. I kind of want to celebrate it. Nothing crazy. Just… get out of here for a bit. Maybe grab coffee or walk somewhere or… I don’t know.” You finally forced yourself to look at him, shy and nervous, fingers twisting in your hoodie. “And you’re the only person who’s really been there through all of this. The only one who gets it. So if you wanted to… maybe we could hang out? Outside of group, I mean.”

Your voice got quieter. “It doesn’t have to be like… a date or anything. We can just call it two friends celebrating a tiny win. Or whatever you want. No pressure at all. If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine—”

“Y/N,” Justin interrupted gently, his blue eyes soft.

You froze.

He smiled a little, almost shy himself. “I’d really like that.”

Your heart did a stupid flip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coffee sounds good. Or food. Whatever you feel like. I’m down for anything.” He paused, then added quieter, “And I’m really happy about your risk level. You’ve been working hard. You deserve to celebrate.”

The warmth in his voice made your eyes sting. You looked down again, smiling despite the nerves.“Okay. Cool. Maybe this Saturday? There’s that little diner downtown. The one with the shitty neon sign?”

Justin chuckled. “I know exactly which one. It’s a plan.”

You both stood up slowly. For a moment you just looked at each other — two broken people standing in the wreckage, tentatively reaching for something good.

“Thanks for saying yes,” you whispered.

“Thanks for asking,” he replied, voice low and sincere.

As you walked out together into the cool evening air, Justin’s shoulder brushed yours. Neither of you said much more, but the silence felt full. Hopeful. Scary.

And for the first time in forever, you weren’t afraid of the scared part.

Saturday evening arrived wrapped in soft golden light and your nerves.

The diner was exactly as you remembered — faded neon sign buzzing above the door, red vinyl booths, the smell of grease and coffee. You got there first and claimed a corner booth. When Justin walked in, hoodie half-zipped and hair still damp from a shower, your heart did that stupid flutter again. He spotted you immediately and smiled — small, but real.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you. “You look… good. Really good.”

You smiled shyly, tugging at the sleeves of your sweater. “Thanks. You too.”

The first half of the evening was gentle. You ordered milkshakes and fries to share. You told him how your therapist had praised the small steps you’d taken. He listened like every word mattered, laughing when you described your terrible attempt at cooking again and how your mom almost cried from relief seeing you try.

But as the plates emptied and the sky outside turned dark, Justin grew quieter. His fingers kept tracing the condensation on his glass. His knee bounced under the table.

“Justin?” you asked softly. “You okay?”

He looked up at you, blue eyes stormy. For a long moment he just stared, like he was memorizing your face in case this went wrong.

“I need to tell you something,” he said finally, voice low. “All of it. Not the group version. The real one.”

You sat up straighter, heart picking up speed. “Okay… I’m listening.”

Justin took a shaky breath and started calm, almost detached, like he was reciting facts.

“I wasn’t always like this. I grew up in shit. Mom was an addict, different guys in and out of the house. I learned early how to survive. Then I got to Liberty and I met Bryce Walker.” His jaw tightened. “He had money. Power. For the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. So I ignored a lot. I laughed at a lot of fucked up jokes. I looked the other way.”

He swallowed hard.

“Then there was Jessica. She was my girlfriend. Bryce… he raped her. At a party. I was right outside the door. I heard everything and I didn’t stop it. I told myself it wasn’t that bad, that she was drunk, that it wasn’t my business. I chose him over her. I chose my place in that world over doing the right thing.” His voice wavered but he kept going. “She doesn’t even remember it fully I think she just has flashbacks somrtimes but I do. Every second. Every sound. I live with that every single day.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak.

Justin’s hands started shaking. He gripped the edge of the table.

“And Hannah Baker… the girl I mentioned before. I was cruel because I was scared. She killed herself. And then the tapes came out. Everything I did, everything I didn’t do… it all came out. I overdosed after that. Almost died. Clay and his parents took me in anyway. I’ve been trying to stay clean ever since.”

His breathing was getting ragged now. The calm facade was cracking.

“I’ve hurt so many people, Y/N. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been weak. I let a girl get raped because I wanted to feel important. I contributed to someone killing herself. I’m an addict who chose drugs over everything who lived in the streets for guilt I sleept with many men for money I got HIV I got adopted. And then I met you.”

His voice broke completely.

Tears filled his eyes, and he didn’t even try to hide them this time.

“You’re sitting here, fighting every day to stay alive after trying to end it all, and you’re still kind. You still smile at my shitty drawings. You still ask me how I’m doing like I’m worth checking on. And I fell in love with you. Hard. Like I can’t even think straight when you’re next to me in group.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another.

“But I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. Every time you look at me like I’m someone good, I want to tell you the truth so you can run. Because if you knew everything — if you really knew what I let happen to Jessica, how I failed Hannah, how fucked up I still am inside — you’d realize I’m poison. And you’ve already been through enough. You’re trying to heal. You don’t need my darkness on top of yours.”

Justin’s shoulders started shaking. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but the sobs broke through anyway — raw, painful sounds that made the few remaining people in the diner glance over.

“I want you so bad it hurts,” he choked out, voice muffled and breaking. “But I keep thinking… what if I ruin you too? What if I’m never going to be good enough? What if all I do is destroy the people I care about?”

He was crying openly now, the kind of crying that came from years of holding it in. His whole body trembled.

You reached across the table without thinking and grabbed one of his hands. It was freezing.

Justin looked up at you, eyes red, face wet, completely shattered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything I’ve done… and I’m sorry I’m dumping this on you on what was supposed to be your celebration. But I couldn’t keep lying to you. Not when I’m falling this hard.”

He lowered his head, shoulders hunched like he was waiting for you to get up and leave.

The diner lights hummed overhead. His hand gripped yours like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

You didn’t even think.

The second Justin’s shoulders started shaking with those broken sobs, you slid out of your side of the booth and moved to his. The vinyl creaked under your weight as you sat right next to him.

“Justin…” you whispered, voice thick with emotion.

He tried to turn away, embarrassed, wiping roughly at his face, but you didn’t let him. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, pulling his head against your chest. He stiffened for half a second — like no one had ever held him like this — before he completely broke.

His arms came around your waist, gripping the back of your sweater like you were the only solid thing left in his world. Harsh, ugly sobs tore out of him as he buried his face in your neck, trembling violently.

“I’m sorry,” he kept repeating against your skin, voice wrecked. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

You held him tighter, one hand stroking through his hair, the other rubbing slow circles on his back. Tears stung your own eyes, but you swallowed them down. This wasn’t about you right now.

You pressed your lips gently to his forehead, lingering there, feeling the heat of his skin and the way he shuddered at the soft contact. Another kiss. Then another. Small, repeated presses full of everything you didn’t know how to say yet.

“Shhh… breathe, Justin. Just breathe,” you murmured against his hair.

When his sobs quieted into shaky, uneven breaths, you pulled back just enough to cup his wet face between your hands. His eyes were red, glassy, and so full of shame it hurt to look at. You brushed your thumbs across his tear-streaked cheeks.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” you said softly, firmly, making sure he heard every word. “Everyone, Justin. Even you.”

He tried to shake his head, but you held him steady.

“I’m not saying what you did wasn’t fucked up. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter. But you’re here. You’re showing up every week. You’re staying clean. You’re letting Clay’s family help you. You’re being honest with me even when it terrifies you.” Your voice cracked. “That’s what second chances look like. They’re not clean and pretty. They’re messy and painful and full of guilt… but you’re still fighting for them.”

You leaned in and kissed his forehead again, slower this time, letting your lips rest there as you whispered:

“I see how much you hate yourself. I see the guilt you carry every single day. But I also see the boy who sits next to me in group. The one who laughs at my dark jokes, who keeps my terrible drawings, who asked me how I was doing even when he was drowning too. That boy deserves a chance to become someone better.”

Justin’s breath hitched. Fresh tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t look away from you this time.

“You don’t know everything yet,” he rasped.

“I know enough,” you answered gently. “And I’m still here. I’m not running. Okay?”

He let out a broken sound — half sob, half relieved laugh — and pulled you back into his arms, crushing you against him. His face buried in your neck again as he clung to you like you might disappear.

“Thank you,” he whispered over and over, voice hoarse and small. “Fuck… thank you.”

You held him there in the corner booth, the diner mostly empty now, the waitress politely ignoring the scene. The world outside kept moving, but inside that moment it was just the two of you — two people who had tried to destroy themselves in different ways, holding each other like maybe, just maybe, healing didn’t have to happen alone.

You kept stroking his hair and pressing soft kisses to the top of his head while he slowly calmed down in your arms.

For the first time in a long time, Justin Foley let himself believe he might not be completely unforgivable.

You stayed wrapped around each other for a long time, his face buried in your neck, your fingers gently running through his hair. The waitress had quietly refilled your waters and left you both alone. Justin’s breathing had finally evened out, but he still held you like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

Slowly, you pulled back just enough to look at him again. His eyes were swollen and red, cheeks wet, but he was looking at you with something raw and desperate — like your words were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You cupped his face again, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears.

“Justin,” you whispered, voice steady even though your own heart was aching. “If this is about deserving… if we’re supposed to earn the right to be happy, to be loved, to get better… then you and I deserve everything good in this world.”

His lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping.

You continued, eyes locked on his, pouring every bit of conviction you had into the words.

“We’ve already paid for our mistakes. We’ve paid with blood and pills and needles and nights we wanted to disappear. We’ve paid by waking up every single day and choosing to stay even when it hurts like hell. So if life is keeping score… we’ve earned this. You and me. We deserve second chances. We deserve to heal. We deserve to be happy.”

You leaned in and pressed another soft kiss to his forehead, then rested your own against it.

“And we’re going to achieve it day by day,” you promised, voice thick with emotion. “Not perfectly. Not without bad days. But together. One shitty group session at a time. One night where the thoughts get loud and we text each other instead of doing something stupid. One milkshake, one terrible drawing, one walk in the rain at a time. You don’t have to be perfect, Justin. You just have to keep showing up. And I’m going to keep showing up with you.”

Justin’s eyes filled with fresh tears, but this time they looked different — lighter, almost disbelieving.

“You really believe that?” he whispered, voice hoarse and small. “Even after everything I just told you?”

“I do.” You smiled softly, a tear slipping down your own cheek. “Because I need to believe it for myself too. If I can fight for you… maybe I can fight for me. And if you can fight for me… maybe you can finally start believing you’re worth fighting for.”

He let out a broken, watery laugh and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you so tight it almost hurt. You felt him press his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his body trembled with the aftermath of everything he’d let out.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve meeting you,” he murmured into your hair. “But I’m so fucking grateful.”

You closed your eyes and held him just as tightly.

Day by day.

That was the promise now — whispered between two broken souls in a crappy diner booth, under flickering neon lights. No grand declarations. No sudden fix. Just two people choosing each other, choosing to fight, choosing to believe they deserved something better.