#double a

Yesterday, somehow, had been worse than Saturday. He'd spent most of the night in the bathroom, alternating between dry heaving and sitting on the cold tile floor because it was the only thing that felt real. The Ambien hadn't worked - hadn't worked in months, really, his body too used to it to get more than a few fitful hours. The visions had come in waves - flashes of futures he couldn't control, prophetic nightmares that showed him things he didn't want to see.

Including her, dying. Glass, and metal, and the sound of brakes that wouldn't catch. A car - her car, he knew somehow - careening through an intersection. The sick crunch of impact, the way physics took over and everything became momentum and angle and inevitability. Her face through the windshield, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream he couldn't hear.

And then nothing. Just silence, and twisted metal, and the smell of gasoline and copper.

He knew that smell. Had dreamed it before in other visions, other futures. The smell of death coming.

He'd pushed that thought away. Filed it under "problems for future Daeron" and focused on just surviving the night. That was its own kind of cowardice, he supposed, but at least it was productive cowardice. At least it kept him breathing. He was excellent at productive cowardice. Had made an art form of it. Could probably teach a masterclass: Avoiding Your Problems Like a Professional, with Daeron Targaryen. He'd be a terrible teacher - wouldn't show up half the time, would drink through the lectures he did attend - but the curriculum would be solid.

This morning, just like the one before, Dunk had called at exactly eight AM.

"Morning, kid. You still here?"

"Yeah. Still here."

"Good. That's real good. How'd you sleep?"

"Didn't."

"Yeah, that's normal. Nightmares?"

Daeron had stared at his ceiling, counting the forty-two cracks in the plaster. Something like that, he thought. Something exactly like that, if nightmares could be prophetic and you were cursed enough to know the difference. If your brain decided that regular garden-variety trauma wasn't enough and upgraded you to the premium package - visions of people dying that actually came true. Excellent value. Five stars. Would not recommend.

The Ambien was supposed to help with that. Had helped, once. Now it just dulled the edges slightly, made the visions swim through a fog instead of hitting with crystal clarity. Not much of an improvement.

"Something like that."

"They'll fade. Eventually. You eat anything?"

He'd looked at the untouched toast on his counter, something he'd made at four AM in a fit of insomnia-fueled desperation and bile. The toast accused him of wasting bread. The toast was probably right. The toast had better judgment than he did, which said something deeply unflattering about Daeron's decision-making skills.

"Not yet."

"Eat something. Doesn't matter what. Your body needs fuel." Dunk paused. "You going to a meeting today?"

"There's one at noon, right? Same church?"

"Yeah. Good group, smaller than Saturday, smaller than Sunday. I won't be there - I've got work - but you should go anyway. Daily meetings for the first ninety, remember?"

"I remember."

"Good. Call me if you need to. Any time. I mean it."

Daeron had gone to the Sunday meeting. Sat in the back, listened to people share their stories, didn't say anything himself. An older woman with kind eyes and leathered skin had been there. A man with a Red Sox cap. A few others he vaguely recognized from Saturday. But not her. Not Dunk.

Just him, and his shaking hands, and the weight of two days of sobriety pressing down on him like a physical thing. Like he could measure it in pounds, in the way his jacket hung loose, in the hollow behind his collarbone.

The visions kept coming. A building fire. Someone's grandfather dying in a hospital bed. A woman finding out she was pregnant at exactly the wrong time. And her - always her - dying in that car crash, over and over, the same sick choreography of metal and glass. He'd had variations of the vision for over a year now, but sobriety was turning up the resolution on his personal hell. HD quality. Surround sound. Director's cut with bonus features.

The Ativan helped. A little. Took the sharp edge off the panic that came with the visions, made his hands shake slightly less. But it didn't stop them. Nothing stopped them. He'd tried everything - alcohol worked best, which was the problem. The meds just made it bearable. Barely.

***

The Monday noon meeting had been different from the others. Smaller group, different energy. More people in business casual, clearly on their lunch breaks from office jobs. A woman had shared about being sober fifteen years and still going to meetings three times a week. A younger guy had talked about day sixty being harder than he'd expected. Someone else would be celebrating six months this week.

Daeron had sat in the back and counted ceiling tiles again, just as he had on Saturday, just as he had on Sunday, and tried not to think about the liquor store on Fifth Street.

Now it was Monday evening. Seventy or eighty something hours. He'd stopped counting precisely because the precision made it worse, made each hour feel like something he could fail at individually. Tomorrow would be day four, and he'd see Dunk again. Maybe he'd see her, too, though he didn't know her schedule, didn't know if she went to Tuesday meetings or if Saturday had been a one-time thing.

He told himself he wasn't hoping to see her.

He was lying.

His phone sat on the coffee table, Dunk's number already pulled up even though it was only six PM. Too early to call. Too early to admit he was struggling. Too early to say that the cravings were getting worse instead of better, that his hands wouldn't stop shaking, that he'd stood outside the liquor store for ten minutes this afternoon before forcing himself to walk away.

The memories of his nightmares pressed against his skull, constant pressure. He could feel them hovering at the edges of his consciousness - fragments of futures trying to claw their way to the surface. Sometimes he thought sobriety was supposed to make things clearer. Turned out it just made the terrible things more vivid. Who knew that removing the numbing agent would make everything hurt more? Shocking development. Truly unexpected.

His phone rang.

Dunk's name on the screen as if he just knew. Not the usual eight AM call. Daeron answered on the second ring.

"Hey."

"Hey, kid. Just checking in. You doing okay?"

"Define okay."

"Are you sober right now?"

"Yes.”

"Are you planning to stay sober tonight?"

Daeron looked at the window, at the city below, at the route to the liquor store he'd memorized without meaning to. He'd memorized it the way other people memorized prayers. He didn't think that said anything good about him. Definitely didn't think it said anything he wanted to examine too closely. But here he was, examining it anyway, because his brain was a helpful little traitor that loved to point out exactly how fucked up he was.

"Yes."

"Then you're doing okay." Dunk's voice was warm, steady. The kind of voice that made you believe impossible things. "I know that the first week is brutal. Next week will be easier."

"Looking forward to it."

"Smart-ass." But Dunk was smiling, Daeron could hear it. "You eat today?"

"Some toast this morning."

"That's not enough. You need protein, your body's trying to heal."

"I know. I'll try."

"Don't try. Do. Order something. Chinese, pizza, whatever. Just eat." Pause. "You going to the meeting tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Seven, right?"

"Right. I'll be there this time. We can grab coffee after if you want. Talk through how the first week's going."

"Okay."

"And, Daeron? You're doing good. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are. Making it past day three is huge."

"Doesn't feel huge."

"It is anyway." Dunk was quiet for a moment. "Get some rest tonight. Try to sleep. I know you probably won't, but try anyway."

"I will."

"See you tomorrow, kid."

The line clicked off.

Daeron set his phone down and stared at it. Tomorrow. Tuesday. He'd see Dunk at the meeting. Maybe he'd see her too.

The maybe bloomed into certainty before he could stop it, which was another kind of pathetic. 

He'd known her for one meeting. One. And here he was, already constructing elaborate fantasies about whether she'd be there, what she'd say, whether she'd remember him. He was aware this made him look desperate. He was also aware that being aware of it didn't make him less desperate, just more insufferable about being desperate. Self-awareness was supposed to be the first step toward change, except in his case it was just the first step toward being annoying about his problems instead of fixing them.

He pulled up a food delivery app, scrolled through options without really seeing them. Everything looked like cardboard. His stomach churned at the thought of eating, but Dunk was right - he needed to put something in his stomach, even if it was just to keep him from throwing up pure bile.

He ordered Chinese food. Fried rice and orange chicken, simple and greasy. It arrived forty-five minutes later. He managed three bites before giving up and putting it in the fridge.

Three bites was better than zero bites. That's what Dunk would say, he was pretty sure. That's what Dunk would say, and Daeron would pretend to believe him, and they'd both know Daeron was pretending but they'd do the dance anyway because that's what recovery was - everyone pretending together until the pretending became true. A collective delusion, but a productive one. Probably.

The evening stretched out before him, empty and endless. He could watch TV - had a hundred streaming services he never used. Could read - had shelves of books he'd never finished. Could write - had notebooks full of bad poetry gathering dust.

Instead, he stepped out onto his balcony with a cigarette. The pack of American Spirits he'd bought yesterday was still mostly full - he'd only had two since then. Never been a heavy smoker. Just liked having something to do with his hands, an excuse to step outside and breathe.

The autumn air was cold against his skin. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, watched the smoke disappear into the dark. The city sprawled out below him, all lights and movement and life he didn't feel part of.

He smoked half the cigarette, then stubbed it out and put the rest back in the pack for later. Waste not, want not. Or something like that.

Back inside, he laid down on his couch and counted the tiles in his ceiling. He did that with every ceiling. The ceiling never changed. 

His phone buzzed. A reminder he'd set: Take meds. Try to sleep.

He went to the bathroom, shook out his pills. One Ativan - 3mg, twice daily as prescribed. One Ambien - 10mg for sleep. The little orange bottles sat on his bathroom counter like sentries, like proof of something. Medical necessity. Professional oversight. Perfectly legal.

He'd thought about mentioning them to Dunk. Had the words ready a few times during their morning calls. By the way, I'm on Ativan and Ambien. Prescribed. For anxiety and insomnia.

He never said it.

It was medical. It was prescribed. It was none of AA's business, really. The program was about alcohol, and he wasn't drinking. That was the point. That was what mattered.

The fact that his psychiatrist had been clear - keep drinking and ther was no way he was staying on those prescriptions - had been part of the decision. Somewhere in the back of his mind, when he'd decided to try sobriety again. He needed the prescriptions. The visions were unbearable without something to dull them. If he lost the pills because he couldn't stop drinking, then he'd really be fucked.

So, he'd stopped drinking. Was trying to stop drinking. Three days and counting.

He swallowed the pills dry, chased them with water from the tap. Brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas that hung loose on his frame - he'd lost more weight, everything fit wrong now - and climbed into bed.

The Ambien would kick in soon. Maybe give him three hours if he was lucky. Four on a really good night, though those were rare now. He'd built up a tolerance over the past year, needed more and more to get the same effect, but his psychiatrist refused to increase the dose.

You're already on two benzos, his doctor had said at his last appointment, two months ago. I'm not comfortable going higher. We should talk about tapering.

Daeron had nodded and said all the right things and walked out with the same prescriptions he'd had before. Tapering could wait. Everything could wait. One crisis at a time.

Sleep came eventually, fitful and full of visions he couldn't control.

Same car, same intersection, same sick crunch of impact.

Daeron woke gasping at 3:47 AM, the same time he'd woken every night since Saturday. His heart was trying to punch through his ribs, his hands shaking worse than before.

He laid there in the dark, counting ceiling cracks until the sun started creeping through the windows and the city began waking up around him. Forty-two cracks, and he knew every one of them intimately by now. Could map them with his eyes closed. Could probably draw them from memory if anyone cared enough to ask.

No one would ask. That was fine. He was very good at things no one cared about. Could put it on his resume: Daeron Targaryen, expert in irrelevant skills and useless knowledge. References available upon request.

At 8AM exactly, his phone rang.

"Morning, kid. You still here?"

"Yeah," Daeron said, voice rough from not sleeping. "I'm still here."

"Good. Another day. You made it." Dunk paused. "Sleep any?"

"A little. Few hours."

"Better than nothing. You eat that food you ordered?"

"Three bites."

"Progress. Try to eat more today.” Another pause. "Still planning on the meeting tonight?"

"Yeah, at seven."

"Good. I'll see you there. You're doing good."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Now go eat some of that food. I'll see you tonight."

They hung up. Daeron stayed in bed for another twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, before forcing himself to get up. Showered. Shaved. Took his morning Ativan - the first dose of the day to keep the anxiety at bay. Ate three more bites of fried rice that tasted like cardboard.

The day stretched out before him, empty and endless. Hours to kill before the meeting. Hours to get through without drinking.

He went for a walk. Forty-five minutes through the city, watching people go about their lives. The morning commute was in full swing - people rushing to catch trains, grabbing coffee, existing in ways that seemed foreign to him now. They all looked so certain. So sure that getting to work on time mattered, that their meetings and deadlines and coffee orders were important.

Daeron couldn't remember the last time anything had felt important. Couldn't remember the last time he'd had somewhere to be, something to do, someone who'd notice if he didn't show up. Well, that wasn't true anymore - Dunk would notice. Dunk would call. That was something. That was more than he'd had three days ago.

He passed the liquor store. The OPEN sign buzzed in the window, neon bright even in daylight. He could see the bottles through the glass - amber and gold and crystal clear. Top shelf, bottom shelf, it didn't matter. He'd drunk them all at various points.

His hands were shaking again. The Ativan wasn't working as well as it used to. Nothing worked as well as it used to. Tolerance was a bitch.

Just today, Dunk had said. You don't have to figure out forever. Just today.

He kept walking. Counted his steps for a while - one, two, three, four - until the numbers became meaningless and he was just moving forward because stopping felt worse.

Got home. Heated up leftovers. Managed four bites this time. Stared at his laptop and thought about writing but couldn't make his fingers cooperate. The poetry was still in there somewhere, buried under the exhaustion, and the shaking, and the visions, but he couldn't reach it. Couldn't find the words that used to come so easily when he was drunk.

Turned out he wasn't a tortured artist. Just tortured. The art part required actually producing something, and all he'd produced lately was excuses and empty bottles. Well, not lately. He was sober now. Currently producing excuses and anxiety. Much better. Very productive.

Counted ceiling tiles. Took a shower that lasted forty-five minutes because the hot water was the only thing that felt real.

At six PM, he got dressed for the meeting. The same expensive jacket that was too big, jeans, boots. Looked at himself in the mirror and saw a stranger - purple eyes with dark circles underneath, hair that needed cutting, greasy yet dull skin that came from not sleeping or eating right.

He looked like shit.

But he was sober. That had to count for something.

***

The walk to the church took twenty minutes. The same basement as Saturday, same burnt coffee smell, same fluorescent lights humming overhead. But it was Tuesday evening instead of Saturday afternoon, and the mood was different - people coming straight from work, tired and worn down, dragging themselves here because the alternative was worse.

Daeron arrived fifteen minutes early. Anxious habit. The room was already filling up. Familiar faces - the older woman with kind eyes, the man with the Red Sox cap, the younger guy who sat by the door. And new faces, people he'd never seen before.

But no Dunk yet. No her.

He grabbed terrible coffee from the percolator - someone had, again, tried to improve it with that shitty, shelf-stable vanilla Coffee-Mate creamer, which only made it worse - and found a seat in the back. Not the same chair as Saturday, but close. Close enough to feel familiar without being obvious about it.

Not that anyone was paying attention to where he sat. But if they were, he'd want plausible deniability. He was very good at plausible deniability. Could win awards for it. Olympic-level plausible deniability.

More people filed in. He watched them, cataloguing details the way he always did. The woman in the business suit who kept checking her phone. The man with paint-stained hands who looked like he'd come straight from a job site. The teenager who couldn't have been more than nineteen, looking scared and defiant in equal measure.

Seven o'clock came and went. The meeting was supposed to start but people were still settling in, getting coffee, finding seats.

And then the door opened and Dunk walked in.

Relief flooded through Daeron so fast it was almost embarrassing. Like Dunk was his security blanket, like he was five years old and needed an adult. Which, given that he couldn't keep himself from drinking and was currently counting on strangers in a church basement to keep him alive, might actually be accurate.

Dunk scanned the room, spotted him, and his face did something that might have been approval, or pride, or maybe  both. He made his way over, coffee cup in hand.

"Hey, kid. You made it."

"Said I would."

"I know. But saying and doing are different things." Dunk sat next to him, easy and comfortable. Like sitting next to Daeron was a normal thing to do. Like Daeron was worth sitting next to. "How you feeling? Today treating you okay?"

"It's treating me like day four... five?"

"Yeah, that tracks." Dunk sipped his coffee, made a face. "God, this coffee is terrible. Why do we keep drinking it?"

"Because it's free?"

"Probably."

The door opened again, and she walked in.

Daeron's breath caught.

She was wearing something more casual than he had seen her on Saturday - just some jeans and a cozy sweatshirt. She had her coat draped over one arm and was scanning the room, looking for someone.

Her eyes landed on Dunk. Then on Daeron. And her face broke into a smile that did something complicated to his chest.

Something that felt dangerous. Something that felt like hope, which was worse than dangerous because at least danger was honest about wanting to kill you. Hope was sneaky. Hope pretended to be your friend and then gut-punched you when you weren't looking.

"Hey! You came back!" She waved, enthusiastic and warm, and made her way over. People moved aside to let her through, greeting her by name - she knew everyone here, apparently. Was part of the community in a way Daeron couldn't imagine being. Was part of something, period, which already put her miles ahead of him.

"You came back," she said again, dropping into the seat on Daeron's other side. The same configuration as Saturday - him bracketed between Dunk and her. Trapped, his brain supplied helpfully. Surrounded. Safe.

He told his brain to shut up. His brain ignored him. As usual.

"And you look slightly less like death, too. Progress."

"That's a low bar."

"Yeah, but you cleared it. I'm counting it as a win." She patted his arm, casual and warm. The touch was brief, but Daeron felt it like a brand. "How are you? Day four?"

"Four or five, give or take."

"Either way, that's past the worst of the physical stuff." She studied him with those intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through him, which was terrifying because if she could see through him, she'd see that he was mostly held together by spite and poor life choices. And self-loathing. Lots of self-loathing. Industrial quantities of self-loathing. 

"You sleeping any better?"

"Not really."

"Yeah, the insomnia's a bitch. Took me about two weeks before I could sleep more than an hour at a time. Hell, I still struggle." She tilted her head slightly. "You eating?"

"When I remember."

She exchanged a look with Dunk. A whole conversation happened in that look - concern, resignation, the shared understanding of people who'd been through this before. 

Daeron was the subject of the conversation and also completely excluded from it. They were talking about him without words, deciding things about his wellbeing, and he just had to sit here and accept it because they were right and he was a disaster.

"He's eating when he remembers," she echoed to Dunk, as if Dunk wasn’t sitting right there and hadn’t heard it for himself. 

"I'm working on it," Dunk said dryly. "He told me that he ate three bites of Chinese food yesterday. It's progress."

"Three bites?" She turned back to Daeron. "That's not enough. You need actual food. Your body's trying to heal and it can't do that on air and terrible coffee."

"I know. I'm trying."

"Try harder. Promise me you'll eat something tonight after the meeting. Doesn't have to be much. Just something with protein."

The way she said it - not demanding, just asking - made Daeron want to promise her anything. Which was alarming. Which meant he should probably lie.

"Okay."

Not lying, then. Great. He was really bad at self-preservation. Add it to the list of things he was bad at. Right below 'staying sober' and 'making good life choices' and 'not instantly becoming infatuated with women who were way too good for him.'

"Good." She smiled again, softer this time. "I'm glad you're here."

Before Daeron could respond - before he could say something awkward or revealing  - someone stood at the front of the room. An older man, maybe sixties, with a kind face and graying hair. He cleared his throat.

"Alright, folks. Let's get started. Welcome to Tuesday night's meeting."

People settled into their seats, conversations dying down. The man at the front read from the laminated card about how Alcoholics Anonymous was a fellowship of people who shared their experience, strength, and hope with each other. The same words Daeron had heard on Saturday, on Sunday, on Monday. The same words that he had heard a thousand times before that, in a thousand different church basements, always thinking this time will be different and always being wrong.

Maybe this time would be different.

Maybe he was an idiot for hoping.

Both could be true. Probably were true. Almost definitely were true.

"My name is Robert, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Robert," the room chorused.

"I'll be chairing tonight. I've been sober twelve years, four months, and - " he checked his watch, " - and some change. One day at a time, right?"

Scattered laughter, warm and knowing.

"Tonight's topic is coming back. About relapsing and finding your way back to the rooms. Because a lot of us have been there, and it's important to remember that the door is always open. No matter how many times you leave, you can always come back."

He opened the floor for sharing.

A woman in the front row raised her hand first. "Hi, I'm Susan, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Susan."

"I relapsed last month after three years sober. My mom died and I thought - I thought I could handle it. Thought I was strong enough." Her voice cracked. "I wasn't. Drank for two weeks straight. But I'm back now. Day seventeen. Starting over."

"Keep coming back," someone said gently.

A man across the circle shared about his fifth time getting sober, about how each time he learned something new about himself. Another woman talked about her teenage son who was struggling with addiction, about how powerless she felt watching him go through what she'd been through.

Daeron listened and tried not to think about how he was on his fifth - sixth? tenth? - time getting sober and still hadn't learned anything except that he was very good at failing in increasingly elaborate ways, each relapse more spectacular than the last.

Then she raised her hand.

"Hi, I'm - " she glanced at Daeron briefly, smiled, " - and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi!"

"I've been thinking a lot lately about my first week. Specifically that first week." Another glance at Daeron. "I know we have some people here who are just starting out, and I wanted to share about that because it was absolutely brutal for me."

Daeron's hands went still in his lap.

"I remember, I was shaking, couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. Everything hurt. I wanted to drink so badly I could taste it." She paused. The pause felt calculated. Purposeful. Like she was letting the words land. "But someone told me - " she looked at Dunk, " - that I just had to make it one more day… Just one more day. Always one more day… And now it's been one year, two months, and twenty-one days." She smiled, and it was genuine, and warm, and hit Daeron somewhere in the chest. Somewhere that had been carefully armored and was now, apparently, vulnerable to women who smiled like that. Fantastic. Excellent development. Really great timing. 

"My life is completely different now. I work at a decent place, and I actually like my job. I have friends who aren't drinking buddies. I have goals. I want to go back to school someday. I have some ambition." She looked directly at Daeron. "So if you're on day three, or day four, or day one, just know - it gets different. Not easier, maybe. But different. Better. You're worth the work."

She sat down.

The meeting continued around him, but Daeron barely heard it. His mind was stuck on her words, on the way she'd looked at him, on the impossible task of believing he was worth the effort when he'd failed at this so many times before.

You're worth the work.

He wanted to believe her. Which meant he probably shouldn't, because wanting things was how he'd ended up here in the first place. Wanting, and taking, and never having the sense to stop before the wanting destroyed him. But maybe this kind of wanting was different. Maybe wanting to be worth something was the kind of wanting that could save him instead of killing him. Maybe. Or maybe he was just dressing up the same old self-destruction in prettier language. Hard to say. He'd always been good with words, good at making terrible ideas sound reasonable.

Maybe it was true.

Maybe he was an idiot.

Definitely both. Almost certainly both.

When it came time for the closing prayer, everyone stood and joined hands. She took his left hand, Dunk took his right, and they recited the Serenity Prayer in unison. Her hand was warm in his, small but strong, and he held on maybe a moment too long before letting go.

She didn't seem to mind.

Or maybe she was just too polite to say anything.

Both, probably.

*** 

The meeting ended. People lingered by the coffee station, clustering in small groups. A few people stepped outside - Daeron could see them through the basement windows, huddled against the October fog, the brief flare of lighters, smoke curling up into the night.

Daeron stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself. He'd never been good at the after-meeting socializing. Never been good at socializing period, but especially not when he was sober, and his hands were shaking, and everyone else seemed to know the secret handshake.

"Come on," Dunk said. "Let's get out of here. There's a diner around the corner that has actual food."

"I should probably - "

"You should probably eat something and talk to people who understand what you're going through." Dunk's tone left no room for argument. "Plus, you promised your new friend here that you'd eat."

She appeared next to them, coat on now. "Come on, Daeron. Diner food is way better than whatever you've been eating. Or not eating."

"How do you know what I've been eating?"

"Because you're freshly sober and you look like a strong breeze could knock you over. I remember that feeling." She linked her arm through his, all casual-like, like this was something they did. Like they were friends.

Like he was someone worth being friends with.

"Let's go. I'm starving."

Daeron let himself be led. It was easier than arguing, and also she was already walking, and also her arm was warm against his, and if he argued, she might let go.

They walked to the diner - same one from Saturday, apparently this was a tradition. She and Dunk led the way, talking about something work-related, while Daeron followed and tried to process the fact that she'd just linked her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was natural. Maybe this was how normal people acted - casual touches, easy affection, the assumption of welcome. Daeron had spent so long drinking alone that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be included in something.

It felt terrifying.

It felt good.

Both, as usual.

The diner was exactly what you'd expect - cracked vinyl booths, laminated menus, a jukebox in the corner that most likely didn't work. But it was warm, and bright, and it smelled like coffee and bacon grease, and Daeron's stomach did something that might have been hunger for the first time in days.

Or nausea. Hard to tell the difference anymore. His body had forgotten how to send clear signals. Everything was just varying shades of discomfort.

They piled into a booth - Dunk on one side, Daeron and her on the other. A waitress appeared almost immediately, looking exhausted in the way all diner waitresses looked exhausted at nine PM on a Tuesday.

"Coffee?"

"Please," Dunk answered. "And keep it coming."

She poured three cups and disappeared.

"So," Dunk started, settling back into the booth. "Week one. How does it really feel?"

"Like drowning. But… drowning slower than day one.."

"Progress." Dunk grinned. "The drowning feeling fades. Eventually."

"When?"

"For me? About six months." She sipped her coffee. "Everyone's different though. Don't compare your timeline to anyone else's."

"Hard not to when you're surrounded by people with years of sobriety."

"Fair. But everyone with years of sobriety once had less than a week, too. We all started exactly where you are." She smiled. "Besides, day four-slash-five is something to be proud of. A lot of people don't make it this far."

The waitress returned for their orders. Dunk got a club sandwich. She got french fries. Daeron stared at the menu like it was written in a language he used to speak but had forgotten.

"Just get something simple," she said quietly. "Eggs and toast. Scrambled eggs are easy on the stomach."

"Okay. Yeah. Eggs and toast. Scrambled."

When the waitress left, she turned to him. "See? Easy. Now you just have to actually eat them when they arrive."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do." But she was smiling when she said it.

"You sound like Dunk."

"Dunk taught me well. He's very good at the whole tough love thing." She looked at Dunk. "Remember when you made me read the Big Book out loud during our first meeting?"

"That was for your benefit."

"It was humiliating."

"Character building," Dunk corrected.

She laughed and turned back to Daeron. The laugh was nice, genuine. The kind of laugh that made you want to be funnier just to hear it again.

Daeron was in trouble. So much trouble. The kind of trouble that had warning labels, and flashing lights, and probably a government advisory. The kind of trouble he had no business getting into when he was four days sober and barely holding himself together. But here he was, getting into it anyway, because apparently he'd learned nothing from his previous disasters.

"What about you? What did you do before you got fired?"

"Marketing analysis. I was terrible at it. It was a career my dad wanted for me."

"What would you rather do?"

The question caught him off guard. No one ever asked him that. No one ever asked what he wanted, just what he was supposed to want, what the family expected, what would look good on paper.

"I used to write. Poetry, mostly. Bad poetry."

"I bet it's not that bad."

"Trust me, it is. Very angsty, lots of metaphors about dragons and death."

"Dragons?" She leaned forward, interested. Actually interested, not just being polite. "That's different."

"Family thing. We have this whole mythology about dragons and prophecy." He trailed off. How did you explain the Targaryen legacy to someone in a diner? How did you say my family thinks we're destined for greatness and I'm the walking proof that destiny is bullshit? How could he explain that he'd spent his entire life failing to live up to expectations he'd never asked for? "It's complicated."

"Everything's complicated," Dunk said. "That's what makes it interesting."

The food arrived. Daeron stared at his eggs and toast and felt his stomach rebel. The eggs looked fine. Perfectly fine. Normal scrambled eggs that normal people ate without drama.

He wasn't normal people. He was a mess who couldn't even eat eggs without it becoming an existential crisis.

"Start small," she encouraged. "One bite. Then another. You can do this."

He managed a bite. Then another. The eggs were better than the Chinese food had been - or maybe he was just less nauseous now. Or maybe having people watch him eat made it harder to give up. By the time the conversation moved on, he'd eaten maybe a third of what was on his plate.

She noticed. Didn't comment, just smiled at him and stole a bite of his toast.

"Hey," Daeron protested weakly.

"What? You weren't eating it."

"I was going to."

"Sure you were." She took another bite. "See? Delicious. You're missing out."

"You're impossible."

"I prefer 'charmingly persistent.'" She grinned. The grin was lopsided, mischievous. The kind of grin that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing and was enjoying it. "Besides, someone has to make sure you actually eat. Clearly you're not going to do it on your own."

Dunk watched them with an amused expression. "You two are trouble together."

"We're siblings," she said. The word landed naturally, like it had been waiting there the whole time. "Trouble is kind of our thing."

"Great. Just what I need. Two of you causing chaos."

"You love it," she said.

"Jury's still out on that."

But Dunk was smiling, too, when he said it, and Daeron felt something warm settle in his chest. This easy banter, this casual warmth - it felt like something he could get used to. Something he wanted to get used to.

Something he'd probably fuck up eventually, but for now, it was nice. For now, he could pretend he was someone who deserved this. Someone who could have friends, and make jokes, and eat eggs in a diner without it being a monumental achievement.

They stayed at the diner for another hour. Dunk told stories about his early sobriety, about the mistakes he'd made and the people who'd helped him anyway. 

She talked about her job at the restaurant, about difficult customers and the chef who kept trying to teach her Italian phrases she immediately forgot.

"He keeps calling me 'bella' and I keep thinking he's saying 'Bella' like the Twilight character," she said. "I finally told him I'm Team Jacob and he looked so confused."

Daeron almost smiled. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. But my Italian is terrible and his English isn't much better, so now I think he thinks I'm romantically interested in someone named Jacob who works in construction."

"To be fair," Dunk said, "I work in construction."

"Your name isn't Jacob."

"Minor detail."

"And you're my sponsor, which would be extremely inappropriate."

"Also a minor detail."

She threw a fry at him. Dunk caught it and ate it, completely unbothered.

Daeron watched them, this easy back-and-forth, and felt less like an outsider than he had in years. Like maybe he could be part of this. Like maybe he already was.

Like maybe he was allowed to be part of something.

The thought was almost as terrifying as the dreams. Maybe more terrifying, because the visions were familiar. This - this belonging, this warmth - was new. And new meant it could be taken away. New meant he could fuck it up. New meant he had something to lose.

At nine, she checked her phone and swore. "I have to go. I've got shit to do before work tomorrow." She stood, grabbing her coat. "This was fun, though. We should do it again."

"Thursday night meeting?" Dunk suggested.

"I'll be there." She looked at Daeron. "You coming to Thursday's meeting?"

"I - yeah. Okay."

"Good. I'll save you a seat." She leaned down and hugged Dunk, then turned to Daeron. For a second, he thought she might hug him too, but she just squeezed his shoulder instead. The touch was brief. Warm. It burned.

"Proud of you."

"Thanks."

"And eat more tomorrow. Actual food, not just toast."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do." She repeated the same thing she had said earlier. She waved at them both and headed for the door, coat billowing behind her like she was in a movie. Like she was someone important.

Maybe she was.

When she was gone, Dunk turned to Daeron. "You doing okay? Really?"

"Define okay."

"Are you going to drink tonight?"

Daeron thought about the liquor store, about the bottles lined up and waiting. About the seventy-eight hours he'd somehow strung together. About her smile, and the way she'd squeezed his shoulder, and how disappointed she'd be if he threw it all away.

About how pathetic it was that a woman he barely knew was the only thing standing between him and a bottle.

About how he'd take pathetic if it kept him breathing.

"No. I'm going to stay sober tonight."

"Good." Dunk pulled out his wallet, left cash on the table for the check. "Come on, I'll give you a ride home."

"You don't have to - "

"I know. I'm doing it anyway."

The ride to Daeron's apartment was quiet, comfortable. Dunk didn't push for conversation, just drove through the city streets while some classic rock station played low on the radio. The silence felt safe. Like Daeron didn't have to perform or explain or justify.

Like existing was enough.

When they pulled up outside Daeron's building, Dunk turned to him. "You did good tonight. Showing up, eating some food, being part of the group. It’s good."

"Feels like barely surviving."

"Barely surviving is still surviving. Don't discount it." Dunk paused. "I'll call you tomorrow morning. Eight AM. And there's a meeting tomorrow afternoon if you want to go. Noon, same place."

"I'll probably go."

"Good. Keep going to meetings. Keep calling me. Keep eating." Dunk smiled. "You're doing better than you think you are, kid."

Daeron didn't believe that, but he nodded anyway. Dunk believed it, and maybe that was enough. Maybe borrowing someone else's faith counted when you'd run out of your own.

"Thanks. For everything."

"That's what sponsors are for."

Daeron got out of the truck, made his way into his building. The elevator ride to his floor felt longer than usual. His apartment was exactly as he'd left it - empty, cold, echoing. The expensive furniture his father had picked out. The art on the walls that meant nothing. The floor-to-ceiling windows that showed him a city he barely felt part of.

He turned on the lights this time. Made himself some tea. Sat on his couch and pulled out his phone.

No new messages. He scrolled through his contacts, stopped on Dunk's name. Thought about calling, about admitting he was struggling, that the cravings were getting worse instead of better.

But it was almost eleven. Dunk had already done enough for one day.

He set his phone down and went to the bathroom. The pill bottles sat on the counter where he'd left them this morning. 

He shook out another Ativan - his second dose of the day, meant to be taken at bedtime along with the Ambien. Swallowed them both dry, chased them with water.

It wasn't enough. It was never enough anymore. But it was better than nothing.

He went back to the couch.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number [22:59]: Hey. It's me from the meeting. Dunk gave me your number. Hope that's okay.

Daeron stared at the message. She'd texted him. She'd gotten his number from Dunk, and texted him, and now his hands were shaking for an entirely different reason.

He typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:

Yeah. Thats okay. [23:01]

Unknown Number [23:02]: Good. Just wanted to check in. Make sure you got home safe.

I did. Dunk drove me. [23:04]

Unknown Number [23:06]: He's good like that. Very dad-energy.

He really is. [23:07]

Unknown Number [23:12]: So listen. I know the insomnia is brutal. If you can't sleep tonight and you need someone to talk to, you can text me. I'm usually awake anyway.

Daeron stared at that message for a long time. Tried to find the trap, the angle, the reason why someone would offer this when they barely knew him. Came up empty.

Maybe there wasn't a trap. Maybe some people were just kind.

You don't have to do that. [23:13]

Unknown Number [23:16]: I know. I want to. We're siblings, remember? We look out for each other.

Siblings. The word sat warm in his chest. Sat there like it belonged. Like maybe he deserved it.

Ok. Thank you. [23:17]

Unknown Number [23:19]: No problem. Now try to sleep. I know you won't, but try anyway.

You too. [23:19]

Unknown Number [23:22]: See you Thursday. I'll save you a seat.

He saved her number. Didn't give her a name, just left it as the number. Stared at the messages for a long moment before setting his phone aside.

She'd texted him. Offered to talk if he couldn't sleep. Talked to him like he was a human-person instead of a sweaty ball of detox.

The woman he'd seen die in his visions thought he was worth checking on.

The cognitive dissonance was staggering.

Daeron got ready for bed - brushed his teeth, changed into the same pajamas that hung loose on his frame. Climbed under the covers and stared at the ceiling.

He had made it through another day without drinking. Had gone to a meeting, had eaten some eggs, had texted with her.

Tomorrow Dunk would call at eight. Tomorrow there would be another meeting if he wanted it. Tomorrow he'd try for day five.

One day at a time.

The Ambien was starting to kick in. That familiar fog creeping in at the edges, making everything soft. The visions would come soon - they always did - but maybe they'd be duller tonight. Maybe the meds would work better than they had the past few nights.

Maybe.

Sleep came eventually, and with it the dreams. But this time, mixed in with the car crash and the death, there was something else. Her smile. The way she'd squeezed his shoulder. The text message offering to talk if he couldn't sleep.

Small things. But they mattered.

He could do one more day.

***

The next two days followed a similar pattern.

Wednesday morning, Dunk called at eight.

"Still here?"

"Still here."

"Look at you."

"I'm barely here."

"Barely counts." Dunk paused. "You going to a meeting today?"

"The noon one."

"Good. I won't be there, but keep going. You eating?"

"I had more eggs this morning. And toast."

"Progress. Keep it up. I'll see you Thursday night."

The Wednesday afternoon meeting was small - maybe ten people total. Daeron sat in the back and listened to people share. A woman talked about her twenty-year anniversary. A man talked about relapsing after fifteen years. Someone else shared about day thirty being harder than expected.

The relapse stories always hit different when you were actively trying not to relapse. Fifteen years sober and still ending up back here - the math on that was depressing. Daeron tried not to do the math. Tried not to think about how he'd probably be back here in fifteen years, if he even made it that long. Tried not to spiral into the inevitable conclusion that he was fundamentally broken and sobriety was just a temporary patch on a permanent problem.

He did the math anyway. Spiraled anyway. Because of course he did.

When it was over, Daeron walked home the long way. Avoided the liquor store. Stopped at a grocery store and bought actual food - eggs, bread, some fruit, sandwich supplies. Made himself eat a sandwich when he got home. Managed half before his stomach rebelled.

Half was better than nothing. Half was progress. Half meant he was trying.

He was so tired of trying.

The afternoon bled into evening, slow and gray. Daeron tried to write, managed half a stanza about dragons and fire before the words stopped coming. The metaphors felt tired. Overwrought. He used to think suffering made him poetic. Turned out suffering just made him tired and his poetry suffered right along with him. Suffered badly. Died a painful death on the page.

Tried to read, couldn't focus. The words swam on the page, refused to mean anything.

Ended up staring at his ceiling, counting those same forty-two cracks over and over until they blurred together. One became seventeen became forty-two became one again. The numbers were a meditation. A mantra. A way to keep his brain from eating itself.

By the time night fell, he was crawling out of his skin. The kind of restless energy that came from early sobriety, from a body that didn't know what to do with itself without alcohol to quiet it down. He paced his apartment, made tea he didn't drink, scrolled through his phone without really seeing it.

His thumb hovered over her number three times before he put the phone down.

At ten PM, he took his pills. Ativan and Ambien, the nightly ritual. The routine was comforting in its own way - something concrete, something prescribed, something that proved he was taking care of himself even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Swallowed them dry, chased them with water. Waited for the fog to come.

Around midnight, he stepped out onto his balcony. The air was cold, sharper now than it had been a few days ago. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, watched the smoke disappear into the dark.

The city sprawled below, all lights and anonymous windows. Somewhere out there, she was probably awake too. Somewhere out there, Dunk was maybe sleeping soundly, or maybe lying awake thinking about his own sobriety, his own demons. Somewhere out there, people were drinking, people were getting sober, people were dying.

Somewhere out there, her future was waiting. The car crash he couldn't prevent. The death he'd already seen.

He took another drag. The cigarette was almost gone. He stubbed it out halfway, saved the rest for later.

The Ambien wasn't working yet. Or maybe it was and this was as good as it got. Hard to tell anymore. The line between medicated and unmedicated kept getting thinner, kept blurring at the edges. He'd been on both for over a year now. The Ativan for almost two. They used to work better. Used to actually help.

Now they just kept him functional. Barely.

That night, he couldn't sleep. Lay in bed counting ceiling cracks until one, then gave up and pulled out his phone.

You awake? [01:14]

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Like she'd been waiting. Like she'd meant it when she said to text.

929-867-5309 [01:15]: Unfortunately. Insomnia's a bitch. What's up?

Can't sleep. Thought you said I could text. [01:16]

929-867-5309 [01:17]: You absolutely can. I'm glad you did. What do you do with all the sleepless hours?

Stare at my ceiling. Count the tiles. Think too much. [01:18]

929-867-5309 [01:19]: How many tiles?

42. 6 rows of 7 [01:20]

929-867-5309 [01:22]: Very specific. That's the answer to life, you know. The answer to life, the universe, and everything.

What? [01:23]

929-867-5309 [01:24]: Doesn't matter

929-867-5309 [01:25]: Sometimes I bake in my head.

What do you bake? [01:26]

929-867-5309 [01:27]: Tonight? Sourdough. Very involved process. Want to hear about it?

Please. [01:28]

And she told him. Long paragraphs about starters, and hydration percentages, and folding techniques. About how you had to feed the starter regularly, like it was a pet. About how the dough needed time to ferment, couldn't be rushed. About how the whole process took days but the result was worth it.

Daeron read every word, letting her voice in his head drown out the visions trying to surface. The car crash faded. The screaming quieted. There was just her, talking about bread, making something as simple as flour and water sound like alchemy.

The Ambien was finally kicking in, making the words swim slightly, making everything soft at the edges. But he kept reading. Kept texting back.

That's actually really interesting. [02:06]

929-867-5309 [02:06]: You're just being nice.

I'm really not. You explain it well. [02:07]

929-867-5309 [02:09]: Careful, I'll start telling you about laminated dough.

Please do. [02:10]

So she did. Croissants, and Danish pastries, and how you had to fold butter into the dough hundreds of times to create the layers. How the butter had to be cold but pliable, how the temperature of everything mattered, how one mistake could ruin hours of work.

929-867-5309 [02:34]: I used to make these at 4 AM in that bakery I told you about. Hundreds of them. My hands would cramp from all the folding but there was something meditative about it. Just me and the dough and the quiet.

Why'd you stop? [02:36]

929-867-5309 [02:38]: Started showing up drunk. Then started drinking during shifts. Got fired, probably. Or quit. Timeline's fuzzy.

Do you miss it? [02:39]

929-867-5309 [02:42]: The baking? Yeah. The 4 AM shifts while hungover? Not so much. But I'd go back to it someday. Different place, different hours. Actually sober this time.

You'd be good at it. [02:43]

929-867-5309 [02:45]: You don't know that. You've never tasted my food.

I have a feeling. [02:46]

929-867-5309 [02:48]: That's weirdly sweet. 

Daeron stared at that message for a long time. 

Not really. [02:51]

929-867-5309 [02:53]: I  think it is. 

929-867-5309 [02:54]: You should try to sleep. I know you won't, but you should try.

You too. [02:55]

929-867-5309 [02:56]: Goodnight, Daeron.

They had texted until almost three in the morning, and when Daeron finally fell asleep, he didn't dream.

No visions. No car crashes. No death.

Just bread rising in an oven, and her hands folding dough, and peace.

The Ambien had finally won.

***

Thursday morning, Dunk's call came at eight sharp.

"How you feeling?"

"Less like I'm dying. More like I'm just existing."

"That's progress." Dunk laughed. "You sleeping any better?"

"A little. Got maybe three hours last night."

"Three hours is better than zero. You eating?"

"Had eggs and toast. And a sandwich yesterday."

"Look at you, being responsible." Dunk's voice was warm, proud. Like Daeron had done something impressive instead of just managing the bare minimum of human survival. "Meeting tonight?"

"Yep."

"Good. I'll be there. See you then, kid."

Daeron hung up and stared at his pill bottles on the bathroom counter. The morning Ativan sat there, waiting. 2mg. Same dose he'd been on for almost two years.

He'd thought, again, about mentioning it to Dunk during the call. Had opened his mouth, had the words ready. By the way, I'm on Ativan and Ambien.

But what would that accomplish? It was prescribed. It was medical. And it wasn't like the pills were the problem - alcohol was the problem. He wasn't drinking.

Besides, the benzos were helping him stay sober. Keeping him calm enough to function, to go to meetings, to not completely lose his shit. Without them, the dreams would be unbearable. The panic would be constant. He'd be useless.

So, he wasn't going to mention them. It was medical. It was private. 

He took the Ativan, chased it with water, and tried not to think about the fact that he'd stopped buying Xanax only two months ago because it had gotten too expensive and was making him forget entire weeks at a time. Tried not to think about how that had probably contributed to getting fired - showing up to work with gaps in his memory, missing meetings he'd scheduled himself, sending emails he couldn't remember writing.

The Xanax had been a mistake. But the prescribed stuff was different. The prescribed stuff was controlled. The prescribed stuff was fine.

He was fine.

The day passed slowly. Daeron tried to write, managed a few lines of terrible poetry before giving up. The dragons refused to cooperate. The prophecies felt forced. He was starting to think his family mythology was just another thing alcohol had made tolerable. Just another delusion he'd needed to be drunk to believe in.

Tried to read, couldn't focus. The books all felt the same - words on pages, stories about people who had their shit together, problems that could be solved in three hundred pages or less.

He ended up just walking around the city for hours, watching people live their lives. They all looked so purposeful. So certain that their destinations mattered, that arriving on time was important, that whatever they were rushing toward was worth rushing for.

Daeron couldn't remember the last time he'd rushed toward anything except oblivion.

By the time evening came, he was wound tight with anticipation. Not for the meeting itself - though that mattered too - but for seeing her again. For the easy banter, and the saved seat, and the way she looked at him like he was a person instead of a problem.

Which was pathetic. Which meant he was exactly as much of a disaster as he'd always suspected. But at least he was a consistent disaster. At least he was reliably pathetic. Points for consistency.

At six-thirty, he headed to the church.

Most of the people from the Tuesday night crowd were there again - familiar faces now. The older woman with kind eyes waved at him. The man with the Red Sox cap nodded hello. The teenager who'd looked so scared on Tuesday smiled shyly.

Daeron was becoming part of something. The thought was terrifying.

And then she walked in, looking exactly the same as she had on Tuesday, and spotted him immediately.

"Hey, brother from another mother!"

The phrase landed with perfect ridiculousness. Daeron smiled. Actually smiled. 

She made her way over, dropped into the seat next to him. The same configuration as Tuesday. Him sandwiched between Dunk and her, surrounded and safe.

"You're here. Look at you."

"Look at me."

"You look better. Less gray." She studied him, and he tried not to squirm under the attention. "You sleeping any?"

"Three hours last night."

"That's good. You eating?"

"Eggs, and toast, and a sandwich."

"Good." She smiled, and the smile did that thing to his chest again. The dangerous thing. The hope thing. "Told you it would get different."

Dunk arrived, sat on Daeron's other side. "The gang's all here."

The meeting started. Different person chairing this time - a woman in her forties who talked about twenty years sober and still discovering new things about herself. The topic was gratitude. People shared about what they were grateful for in sobriety.

When she raised her hand, Daeron felt his breath hitch. Braced himself for whatever she was about to say.

"Hi, I'm - " she glanced at Daeron like she had on Tuesday, smiled, " - and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi!"

"I'm grateful for a lot of things today. My job, even when customers are terrible. My apartment, even though it's tiny. The fact that I can pay my bills and buy groceries without panicking." She paused. The pause felt deliberate. Weighted. "But mostly I'm grateful for this community. For my sponsor who never gave up on me even when I wanted to give up on myself. For the friends I've made here who actually understand what I'm going through."

She looked down at Daeron.

"And I'm grateful for newcomers who keep showing up even when it's hard. Who text me at one in the morning because they can't sleep. Who remind me why this is all worth it."

She sat down.

Daeron couldn't breathe properly. She'd shared about him. About their texts last night. About gratitude for him showing up.

He'd spent so long being something people wanted to forget that being something someone was grateful for felt impossible. Like a language he'd never learned, a country he'd never visited. Like he'd accidentally wandered into someone else's life where people were glad he existed.

She was grateful for him.

The thought sat strange and warm in his chest.

When the meeting ended, people milled around. Through the basement windows, Daeron could see the smokers gathering outside - little clusters huddled against the October cold, the brief flare of lighters, smoke rising into the dark. Dunk was already pulling out his pack of Camels.

"You coming out?" Dunk asked.

Daeron hesitated, then nodded. He could use the air. And a cigarette.

Outside, the cold hit immediately. A small group had formed - Dunk, a couple of other guys Daeron vaguely recognized, and her. She had a cigarette in her hand but wasn't lighting it, just holding it like a prop.

"You smoke?" Daeron asked.

"Used to. Quit around the same time I quit drinking." She looked at the unlit cigarette. "Sometimes I still like to hold one. Muscle memory, I guess."

Dunk lit his cigarette, took a long drag. "I should quit these too, probably. One vice at a time."

"That's what I keep telling him, at least," she said. "But he's stubborn."

"They help," Dunk said simply.

Daeron bummed a cigarette from Dunk - his pack was nearly full, he wouldn't miss it. Lit it, took a drag. The nicotine hit his system and his shoulders dropped slightly. Not relaxation, exactly. Just... less tense.

One of the other guys, older, with graying hair, gestured at the cigarettes with a rueful smile. "They’ll kill ya’.” 

"Yep," she agreed, still holding her unlit one.

"But here we are anyway," the guy continued.

"Here we are," Dunk agreed.

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the smokers smoking, her holding her unlit cigarette like a talisman, the cold sharp against their faces.

"You going to the diner?" she asked Daeron.

"Yeah. You?"

"Can't. Work." She finally put the cigarette back in someone's pack - apparently she just borrowed them to hold sometimes, which was both sad and oddly endearing. "But I'll see you Saturday, right?"

"Saturday."

"Good." She squeezed his arm, warm even through his jacket. "Keep going."

She headed back inside to grab her coat, and Daeron finished his cigarette. Smoked it down to halfway, then stubbed it out and pocketed the rest for later.

"You don't smoke much," Dunk observed.

"Never did. Just... something to do with my hands."

"Fair enough."

They stood there a moment longer, watching the smoke curl up into the dark, before heading to the diner - Dunk, Daeron, and a couple of the other guys from the meeting.

***

Saturday morning, Dunk's call came at eight.

"One week, kid. You made it."

"Well, technically that was yesterday."

"Fine. Eight days. How does it feel?"

"Surreal."

"Yeah. But you did it." Dunk paused. "You going to the afternoon meeting?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."

"Good. I'll see you there. We should celebrate after. Get real food, not just diner food."

"Okay."

"I'm proud of you, Daeron. A week is huge."

"Thanks."

The words felt inadequate. Dunk was proud of him, and Daeron didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to hold it, where to put it, whether he was allowed to keep it. Whether it was real or just something people said because they were supposed to say it. Whether he'd earned it or if Dunk was just being kind to a disaster case.

When they hung up, Daeron lay in bed and stared at his ceiling. A week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Well, more than that, actually.

He'd actually made it.

He took his morning Ativan. The same routine.

One week sober from alcohol. Still on the benzos. Still taking them as prescribed. Still not mentioning them to anyone at AA.

It was fine. It had to be fine.

*** 

The afternoon meeting was crowded - more people than usual. Saturday meetings always drew a bigger crowd, people who worked during the week or couldn't make evening meetings. Daeron arrived early and found her already there, saving him a seat.

"Hey. One week."

"One week."

"Nice job." She hugged him, and he hugged back, and for a moment everything felt almost normal. Almost like he was someone who deserved to be hugged. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks for saving me a seat."

"Always."

The meeting started. Same format as always, but today felt different. Lighter, somehow. Like making it a week meant something. Like he'd proven something to someone, even if that someone was just himself.

When it was time to close, Dunk stood up from where he'd been sitting across the circle.

"I’d like to recognize my sponsee. Daeron here hit seven days. His first week."

Applause. Warm, genuine, from people who understood exactly how hard seven days was. From people who'd been there, who knew that seven days felt like seven years when you were white-knuckling through it.

"Speech," she said, grinning like she knew this would torture him.

"I don't - I'm not good at speeches."

"Just a few words," Dunk encouraged. "Tell them how it feels."

Daeron stood, heart pounding. Looked around the room at faces that were becoming familiar. People he recognized. People who recognized him.

People who knew he was trying.

"I'm Daeron, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Daeron."

"This is my seventh and a half day. My first week. I've - I've tried this before. Multiple times. But this time feels different." He looked at Dunk. Dunk, who called every morning and believed in him even when Daeron didn't believe in himself. "I seemingly have people who actually care if I make it. Who call me every morning and force me to eat and tell me I'm doing good even when I don't believe it."

He looked at her, sitting there with that warm smile that did impossible things to his chest.

"And I have someone who saves me a seat every meeting and texts me about bread at 2 AM and makes this feel less impossible."

His voice was steady. Clearer than it had been in days. Like maybe he meant it. Like maybe he believed it.

"I don't know what happens tomorrow. But I made it seven days. And that's something."

"One day at a time," someone called.

"Yeah. One day at a time."

He sat down. She immediately grabbed his hand and squeezed it. The squeeze said I'm proud of you and keep going and you're not alone all at once.

Daeron squeezed back. Hoped it said thank you and I'm trying and please don't give up on me.

After the meeting, as people milled around, a few people stepped outside. Daeron could see them through the windows again - the familiar ritual of lighters and smoke, the brief escape into the cold.

Dunk announced they were going somewhere nice for dinner. "Not the diner. Actual restaurant food."

"I have to work," she said. "Dinner shift starts in an hour."

"Tomorrow then. Sunday dinner. The three of us."

"I work Sundays too."

"Monday?

"Monday I'm off." She grinned. "Monday dinner. Actual restaurant, not the diner. I'm in."

"Good. Daeron?"

"Yeah. Okay."

They walked out together, the three of them, into the October afternoon. The air was crisp and clean, and for the first time in a week, Daeron felt like he could actually breathe. Like the weight on his chest had lifted just slightly. Just enough.

She hugged him again, goodbye before heading to work. "See you Tuesday. Keep going, my brother from another mother."

The phrase was ridiculous. Daeron loved it more each time he heard it. 

"I will."

When she left, Dunk turned to him. "You really doing okay?"

"I think so. Yeah."

"Good. You're doing better than you think. One week is huge."

"Feels huge."

"It should." Dunk clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll drive you home."

That night, Daeron lay in bed and didn't count ceiling cracks. Just lay there in the dark, phone in his hand, thinking about the week he'd survived.

Seven days. He'd made it seven days.

His phone buzzed.

929-867-5309 [00:27]: One week. I'm so proud of you.

Thanks for everything. [00:28]

929-867-5309 [00:29]: For what?

Saving me seats, texting me about bread, all that [00:30]

929-867-5309 [00:31]: That's what siblings do, we look out for each other.

Siblings. The word had weight now. Meaning. It wasn't just a label, it was a promise. A commitment. A way of saying you matter to me without having to say it directly.

Daeron was very bad at direct.

929-867-5309 [00:32]: Get some sleep. Tomorrow's another big day.

You too. [00:33]

929-867-5309 [00:34]: Goodnight, Daeron :)

Daeron set his phone down and closed his eyes. He tried not to read into the smiley face. Failed completely. Decided he didn't care.

He'd taken his pills an hour ago.The nightly routine. The meds were working tonight - he could feel the familiar fog settling in, making everything soft at the edges.

For the first time in a week, sleep came easy.

He dreamed, but not about death. About her smile. About Dunk's gruff voice saying "you're doing good, kid."

About making it to day eight.

***

The next two weeks passed in a blur of meetings and phone calls and texts about yeasted confections.

Monday dinner became a tradition - Daeron, Dunk, and her at a Thai place downtown. They'd sit in the same booth near the window, order too much food, and talk for hours. She'd steal things off Daeron's plate when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd let her, because watching her enjoy his food felt better than forcing himself to eat it. Dunk would pretend to be annoyed but always ordered extra just in case.

It was the closest thing to family Daeron had felt in years. 

Tuesday and Thursday meetings, she always saved him a seat. Same spot, every time, like it was written in stone. Like it was his spot and hers and no one else was allowed there. Saturday afternoons, the same. The routine became comforting, something solid to hold onto when everything else felt shaky.

After meetings, people would gather outside to smoke. Daeron would join them sometimes when he remembered to bring his own pack, would smoke one halfway. Her holding unlit cigarettes like prayers, muscle memory of an old habit. The quiet companionship of people standing in the cold together, not saying much, just being.

Dunk called every morning at eight without fail. Some days they talked for five minutes, some days for twenty. It didn't matter. The call itself was the thing that mattered. The reminder that someone gave a damn if he was still breathing.

That someone would notice if he disappeared.

Day ten, Daeron ate a full meal for the first time. Some yellow curry at their Monday dinner, and he managed to finish the whole thing. Dunk had looked so pleased he'd almost teared up, and Daeron had pretended not to notice because they were both terrible at emotions.

Day twelve, Daeron slept six hours straight and woke up at a reasonable hour. The Ambien had actually worked for once. No visions, no nightmares. Just actual, real sleep. He'd texted Dunk immediately and gotten back a string of celebration emojis that seemed wildly out of character but somehow perfect.

Day fifteen, he realized he'd gone a full day without thinking about drinking. The liquor store was still there on Fifth Street, neon sign still buzzing, but he'd walked past it without stopping, without even slowing down. Had barely registered it was there.

The visions were still there, hovering at the edges. He saw the car crash twice more - her dying in twisted metal and glass, the smell of gasoline and copper. The Ativan dulled them slightly, made them less sharp, but they were still there. Saw other things too. A house fire on day fourteen that he couldn't prevent. Someone's grandmother dying peacefully in her sleep. A car accident that would happen next month.

But he also saw good things. Saw her laughing at dinner, head thrown back, completely uninhibited. The laugh that made him want to be funnier just to hear it again. Saw Dunk's proud smile when Daeron made it two weeks. Saw himself at day thirty, holding a chip, surrounded by people who cared.

He started to believe maybe the good visions could be true too.

Maybe prophecy didn't have to mean doom. Maybe seeing the future just meant he had more time to appreciate the present.

Maybe he was full of shit.

Probably that last one. Almost definitely that last one.

Late at night, when the insomnia came despite the Ambien, he'd step out onto his balcony. The air getting colder as the days passed. He'd light a cigarette, smoke it halfway, stub it out. Watch the smoke disappear into the dark while the city lived below him.

Sometimes he'd text her. Sometimes she'd already be awake, and they'd talk about bread or books or nothing at all. Sometimes he'd just stand there alone, counting the lights in windows, wondering about the lives behind them.

The cigarettes helped. Not the way alcohol had helped - they didn't make anything go away. But they gave him something to do with his hands. A reason to step outside. A ritual that wasn't drinking.

Small mercies.

Every night, he took his pills. They were helping. Keeping the panic at bay. Dulling the visions just enough to function. Giving him a few hours of sleep most nights.

It was fine. It had to be fine.

***

On day eighteen, after a Thursday meeting, Dunk pulled him aside.

"Coffee? Just you and me?"

"Sure."

They went to a different diner - greasier, older, the kind of place that hadn't updated since the seventies. The booths were more duct tape than vinyl at this point. Dunk ordered black coffee. Daeron got decaf because his sleep was precarious enough without adding caffeine to the mix. The Ambien was barely working as it was.

"You've been doing good," Dunk said. "Really good. Eighteen days is great."

"Feels great, I guess."

"It should." Dunk sipped his coffee, made a face at the taste.

They sat in silence for a moment. Comfortable silence, the kind that didn't demand filling. Daeron traced the rim of his cup with one finger, thinking about Dunk. About his sobriety. About how Dunk seemed so solid now, so put-together.

Hard to imagine him as the mess Daeron currently was.

Harder still to believe that Dunk had been worse.

"Can I ask you something?" Daeron asked, finally.

"Yeah, ‘course."

"How did you..." He paused, trying to find the right words. The words that wouldn't sound accusatory or pitying or wrong. "I mean, you seem so... stable. Like you've got everything figured out. It's hard to imagine you ever being where I am right now."

Dunk smiled, sad around the edges. The smile of someone who'd heard this before. "You want to know how someone like me ended up in AA."

"Kind of. Yeah."

"Most people do. I don't exactly look the part, right? Stable job, sponsoring people, got my shit together." Dunk set his cup down. The cup rattled slightly. His hands weren't entirely steady either. "My parents died when I was fifteen."

Daeron went still.

"Car accident. Head-on collision with a drunk driver." Dunk's voice was matter-of-fact, but his hands were tight around his cup. The same way Daeron's got when he was trying to hold something together. When he was pretending the thing he was talking about didn't still hurt. "Ironic, right? I ended up in the system. Foster care, group homes. Started drinking at sixteen. Got into fights. Was generally a mess."

"What happened?"

"Got arrested at seventeen for stealing a bottle of Smirnoff. Judge gave me a choice: juvie or court-ordered rehab. I picked rehab because I thought it would be easier."

"Was it?"

"Fuck no." Dunk smiled ruefully. The smile said I was an idiot and I'm glad I was wrong all at once. "But it saved my life. First meeting, I sat in the back planning my escape route. And this old guy - Arlan Pennytree - came right up to me after. Said, 'You look like you need a sponsor.'"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I said no. He gave me his number anyway. Told me to call when I was ready." Dunk shook his head. "Three days later I called him at 2 AM, drunk, crying. He came and got me."

Dunk's voice got softer, the way it did when he talked about things that mattered. About people he'd lost.

"Arlan didn't just sponsor me. He took me in. Let me live with him. Taught me construction - said I needed a trade, something to keep my hands busy. Something real, you know? Something you could point at and say ‘I built that’." Dunk's smile was genuine now, remembering. "He became my dad in every way that mattered."

"How long were you with him?"

"Seven years. I got sober, stayed sober, became a sponsor myself. Thought I had it all figured out." Dunk stared into his coffee. The coffee didn't have answers. It never did. "Then he died. Heart attack in his garden. I was twenty-four. He was sixty-eight."

"I'm sorry."

The words felt inadequate. They always did. What do you say to someone who lost their father-figure? What do you say to grief that size?

"I'd been sober seven years. Thought nothing could shake me. I was wrong." Dunk looked up, met Daeron's eyes. "I didn't even make it through the funeral sober. Bought a bottle on the way home from the cemetery. Drank for three weeks straight."

"How did you stop?"

"Someone named Lyonel found me. Knew me from meetings - we weren't close, but he knew who I was. Knew I'd been Arlan's sponsee." Dunk's voice warmed slightly. "He literally picked me up off a barstool and drove me to a meeting. Became my new sponsor. Saved my life the way Arlan saved it before."

Dunk paused, and Daeron could see him deciding something. Weighing whether to say more.

"I've been sober four years now. Almost four and a half."

"So you relapsed after seven years and came back."

"Yeah. And I'll tell you what I learned - life keeps happening. People die. You lose things that matter. But you can stay sober through it. Or you can come back after you fall. As many times as it takes."

"What if I can't?"

"You can. You just have to keep trying." Dunk leaned forward. "Look, I know you're struggling with something. The nightmares, the bad sleep, whatever it is. I'm not going to push you to tell me, but you don't have to face it alone. That's what we're here for."

Daeron wanted to tell him. About the visions, about seeing her die, about the weight of knowing futures he couldn't change.

About the pills sitting on his bathroom counter. The Ativan and Ambien. The benzos he took every single day. The fact that his psychiatrist had threatened to cut him off if he kept drinking, and that had been part of why he'd tried sobriety again.

The words were right there, pressing against his teeth, begging to come out.

But what would he even say? Hey Dunk, I'm on benzos but it's fine because they're prescribed? That would open a whole conversation about cross-addiction, about replacing one substance with another, about whether he was really sober or just not drinking alcohol while still being dependent on something else.

And he couldn't have that conversation. Couldn't risk someone telling him the pills were a problem. Because if the pills were a problem, then he had nothing. No alcohol, no scripts, just raw, unmedicated terror and nightmares he couldn't control.

So he kept his mouth shut.

"Okay," he said instead. "Thank you."

"That's what sponsors are for." Dunk smiled. "You'll meet Lyonel soon, by the way. He's been in Europe, but he gets back next week. You'll like him. He's... a lot. But he's good people."

"Okay."

"He's very honest. Brutally honest. But in a good way. Like, he'll tell you exactly what he thinks, and then tell you about his sex life in graphic detail."

"That's... good to know."

"Yeah. Fair warning." Dunk grinned. "But he's got a good heart. And he gives excellent advice, even when you don't want to hear it."

They sat in silence for a moment, comfortable and easy. Daeron thought about mentioning the pills again. Thought about just saying it, getting it out there, seeing what Dunk would say.

But the moment passed.

Then Dunk flagged down the waitress for the check.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here. You've got day nineteen to get through."

"One day at a time."

"Exactly."

***

Day twenty-five came with news: Lyonel was back.

"He wants to meet you," Dunk said during their morning call. "Coffee before the Saturday meeting?"

"Sure."

"Prepare yourself - Lyonel's a lot. He means well."

Daeron had heard "he's a lot" before. Usually it meant the person was exhausting. Sometimes it meant the person was worth it.

He hoped Lyonel was worth it.

He took his morning Ativan after the call. The routine so ingrained now he barely thought about it. Shake out the pill, swallow it dry, chase it with water. Medical necessity. Doctor's orders. Perfectly fine.

Saturday afternoon, Daeron met them at a coffee shop near the church. Lyonel was impossible to miss - tall, broad-shouldered, with a laugh that seemed to come from his belly and fill the entire room. He was talking to Dunk when Daeron arrived, gesturing wildly with his hands like he was conducting an orchestra.

" - and I'm telling you, the sommelier looked personally offended when I ordered grape juice! Like I'd insulted his entire lineage! His ancestors were weeping, Dunk. Weeping."

Dunk spotted Daeron first. "There he is. Daeron, this is Lyonel. Lyonel, Daeron."

Lyonel turned, and his grin widened. The grin was infectious. Daeron found himself almost smiling back. Almost.

Lyonel stuck out his hand. "You must be the kid Dunk keeps texting me about at ungodly hours."

Daeron shook his hand. Lyonel's grip was firm, warm, completely unself-conscious. "Sorry?"

"Don't be. Dunk's proud of you, which means I'm proud of you by extension. That's how the chain works." Lyonel studied him with sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. The kind of eyes that missed nothing and forgave most of it anyway. "Twenty-five days?"

"Yeah."

"That's huge. Past the hard part. Physically, anyway." He clapped Daeron on the shoulder. The clap was emphatic. Lyonel was emphatic about everything, apparently. "Come on, let's get coffee. I need to tell you all about Paris and why French sommeliers are incredibly pretentious bastards."

They ordered coffee - Lyonel got something complicated with oat milk and what looked like three shots of espresso, Dunk got black, Daeron got a latte because he was feeling adventurous. Found a table by the window.

"So," Lyonel said, settling in with the air of someone about to tell a very good story. Someone who knew his audience and knew they'd love it. "Dunk's your sponsor, which makes me your grand-sponsor. Very official. Do I get a title?"

"You can be Grand-Sponsor Lyonel," Daeron offered.

"I love it. Very dignified. Very British." Lyonel took a long sip of his coffee. "Now. France. France was beautiful. My husband and I had a lovely time not drinking at wine tastings - which is harder than it sounds, let me tell you - and we definitely, absolutely had an orgy in Paris."

Daeron choked on his coffee.

"Lyonel," Dunk said, sounding like a man who'd had this conversation many times before and lost every time.

"What? It's true!" Lyonel looked genuinely baffled by Dunk's exasperation. Like he couldn't understand why anyone would be surprised. "We went to this very exclusive club - very discreet, very tasteful, excellent lighting - and we met some very friendly people. Plural. Multiple friendly people. And we all had a wonderful time together."

"You're shameless."

"I'm honest. There's a difference." Lyonel turned to Daeron, eyes twinkling. "Look, I may have given up drinking, but I can't give up all of life's pleasures. That would be unreasonable. Sobriety isn't about becoming a monk, it's about being intentional with your choices."

"So you intentionally chose to have an orgy," Daeron deadpanned.

"Exactly! See, this kid gets it." Lyonel beamed like Daeron had just solved a complex math problem. "My husband and I have an understanding. We've been together fifteen years, married for ten. We know what we want. Sometimes what we want involves other people. Multiple other people. As long as everyone's consenting and having a good time, where's the harm?"

"There isn't any," Dunk said. "You're just very... enthusiastic about sharing details."

"Life's too short to be coy." Lyonel waggled his eyebrows in a way that should have been ridiculous but somehow worked. "Besides, sober orgies are way better. You actually remember them. And the awkward morning-after small talk is significantly less awkward when no one's hungover and everyone remembers what happened."

The door opened and she rushed in, still in her work uniform from the lunch shift. She spotted them and waved, face lighting up.

"Lyonel! You're back!"

She practically launched herself at him. Lyonel stood to hug her, lifting her slightly off the ground like she weighed nothing. The hug was warm, genuine.

"Missed you, kiddo."

"Missed you too." She pulled back, grinning. "How was the orgy?"

"Magnificent. Ten out of ten, would recommend. Might write a review on Yelp."

"I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you. I worked very hard. Well, not too hard. That would defeat the purpose." Lyonel set her down and she slid into the booth next to Daeron. Her arm brushed his. He tried not to notice. Failed completely. "How's things with you?"

"Good. Working too much. But good."

"That's the dream." He turned to Daeron. "You've met our girl here?"

"We're siblings," she answered for Daeron. The word came natural now. Easy. Like it had always been true. "Dunk adopted us both."

"Ah, the family grows." Lyonel's eyes twinkled with something knowing. Something that suggested he saw exactly what was happening here and found it delightful. "How are you really doing, kid?"

Daeron considered lying. Lyonel seemed like the kind of person who could spot a lie from a mile away and would call you on it in the kindest possible way.

"Some days are okay. Some days I want to crawl out of my skin."

"That's normal. First month is brutal."

"Does it get less brutal?"

"Eventually. Different brutal, anyway." Lyonel leaned forward. The lean was conspiratorial. Intimate. Like they were sharing secrets. "But here's what I've learned - and I learned this the hard way, trust me - you can't do this alone. Nobody can. You've got to let people help. You've got Dunk, you've got oue girl here, and now you've got me. We're your people. Let us be your people."

The simplicity of it was devastating. Let us be your people. Like it was that easy. Like family was just a choice you made and kept making.

Maybe it was.

"Okay."

"I mean it. You need anything - 3 AM, feeling like drinking, feeling like dying, whatever - you call. Any of us. That's what we're here for." Lyonel's voice was serious now. The joking gone, replaced by something solid. Something real. "We don't let each other fall alone. That's the deal."

"Okay."

They talked for another thirty minutes before heading to the meeting. Lyonel had stories about everything - his early sobriety, his husband, how they accidentally joined a protest march in Paris because he thought it was a parade and ended up chanting about workers' rights for two hours. He was loud, and unfiltered, and completely himself, and Daeron found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't in weeks.

Lyonel made space feel safe. Made being loud seem okay. Made Daeron think that maybe you could be a disaster and still be loved.

The Saturday meeting was packed as usual. Lyonel chaired - warm, funny, told the story about Paris and the orgy and how sobriety didn't mean giving up joy or pleasure or being yourself.

"I spent years drinking because I thought that's how I was supposed to be fun," Lyonel said. His voice carried through the room, commanding without demanding. "Turns out I'm plenty fun sober. More fun, actually, because I remember the fun I'm having. And I can consent to the fun. And I don't wake up wondering if I said something horrible to someone I care about."

People laughed. Daeron saw heads nodding around the circle.

"Point is," Lyonel continued, "you don't have to become someone else to be sober. You just have to become the version of yourself that doesn't drink. And sometimes that version is better. Sometimes it's not. But it's always more honest."

The meeting felt different with Lyonel running it. Warmer, somehow. Like he'd turned up the thermostat on human connection.

After, as people filed out, a small group gathered outside to smoke. Daeron joined them - Dunk lighting up almost immediately, a couple of others following suit. She stood with them but didn't light anything, just enjoyed the cold air and the company.

"I swear I'm going to quit these," Dunk said, exhaling smoke into the air.

"You've been saying that for four years," Lyonel said. He didn't smoke - had quit years ago, he'd mentioned. "Cancer sticks, every one of them."

"Says the man who spent fifteen years smoking," Dunk shot back.

"Exactly. Which is why I know what I'm talking about." Lyonel grinned. "I quit smoking the same time I got sober. Figured if I was going to torture myself, might as well go all in."

"They're definitely cancer sticks," she agreed, watching the smokers. "But I get it. Sometimes you need something."

Daeron bummed another cigarette from Dunk, smoked it halfway while they all stood in the cold. The companionship of it felt good. Safe. Like being part of something.

After, they went to dinner - real restaurant this time, not the diner. A nice Italian place with cloth napkins and wine glasses they didn't use. She couldn't come, had a dinner shift, but promised to see them Tuesday.

Lyonel told more stories over pasta. About his own thirty days, which had involved a lot of crying and a very patient sponsor who'd let him call at 4 AM every day for a month. About his early relationship with his husband, how they'd met in the rooms and fallen in love slowly, carefully, building something solid on the foundation of shared brokenness.

About Arlan.

"Arlan was the best of us," Lyonel said, voice going soft. The softness felt sacred. Earned. "He had this way of seeing the good in people even when they couldn't see it themselves. He saw it in Dunk when Dunk was just an angry kid in court-ordered rehab. He saw it in me when I relapsed and thought my life was over."

"How long were you sober before you relapsed?" Daeron asked.

"Five years. Thought I had it all figured out. Thought I was immune." Lyonel shook his head. "My brother died. Cancer. We'd been estranged for years - my drinking had destroyed that relationship along with a lot of others. He reached out when he got diagnosed, wanted to make amends. I watched him die slowly over six months, and after the funeral, I just... gave up. Thought, if life can end just like that, what's the point of being sober? Might as well enjoy myself."

"What happened?"

"Drank for three months. Lost my job, almost lost my husband, definitely lost my dignity." Lyonel smiled ruefully. The smile acknowledged the pain without dwelling in it. "Arlan found me at a bar - didn't sponsor me directly, but he knew me from the community. He was one of those guys everyone knew, you know? Been in the rooms for fifteen years by that point. Everyone's wise uncle. Everyone's safe place to land."

Lyonel's voice got even softer.

"He just sat down next to me like we'd planned to meet there. Said, 'You ready to come home?' And I was."

"And then you sponsored Dunk after Arlan died?" Daeron asked.

"Yeah. Dunk relapsed hard when Arlan died - three weeks of drinking straight. I found him at a bar and told him, 'Arlan wouldn't want this. You're done now.' Became his sponsor." Lyonel looked at Dunk with so much fondness it almost hurt to see. The kind of love that was brotherly and fatherly and something beyond categories. "Saved my life by letting me save his. That's how it works, you know? We save each other. Over and over. As many times as it takes."

Lyonel leaned back, the storytelling energy shifting into something more philosophical.

"Arlan used to say that sponsoring someone was the best way to stay sober yourself. That helping someone else work the steps meant you had to keep working them too. Can't lead someone through a door you're not willing to walk through yourself." He grinned. "Of course, Arlan also used to say that anyone who claimed to have worked all twelve steps perfectly was either lying or insufferable, so take that wisdom with appropriate skepticism."

"He sounds like he was a good person," Daeron said.

"The best. He would have liked you, kid. You've got that same quality he was always looking for - you're genuine about your brokenness. No pretense. Just a guy trying to stay sober and mostly failing at pretending he's got it together." Lyonel raised his water glass. "That's the kind of honest that builds recovery. Cheers to that."

They clinked glasses.

"We all fall sometimes," Lyonel said. "The important part is getting back up. And having people who'll help you up when you can't do it yourself."

After dinner, in the parking lot, Lyonel pulled Daeron aside while Dunk was unlocking his truck.

"Listen, kid. I can see you're carrying something heavy. I don't know what it is and I won't ask." Lyonel's hand was warm on his shoulder. Steady. "But whatever it is - and I mean whatever - you're not alone in it. You've got us now. Don't forget that."

"Okay."

"I'm serious. Dunk's the responsible one, I'm the fun one who gives questionable advice and talks too much about sex, and your fake-sister is the heart of the whole operation. Between the three of us, we've got you covered." Lyonel squeezed his shoulder. "You're going to be okay. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But eventually."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're still here. Because you keep showing up. That's all any of us can do - keep showing up until showing up becomes living." Lyonel smiled. "And you're doing it. Day twenty-five. That's no small thing."

Lyonel squeezed his shoulder and then headed to his own car, waving cheerfully.

Daeron stood there for a moment, thinking about family. About how his actual family - the Targaryens with their legacy, and their prophecies, and their expectations - had never felt like this. Had never felt safe. Had never felt like home.

But this ragtag group of recovering alcoholics? They felt like home.

They felt like people who'd catch him if he fell.

They felt like maybe he was worth catching.

*** 

Day twenty-six, Daeron woke from a vision sharper than any before.

The intersection came first this time. He recognized it - somewhere he'd never been but would know instantly if he saw it. Four-way stop, traffic light swaying in wind he couldn't feel. 

And then her car. Sedan, dark color, something forgettable.

She was driving.

The brakes failed. He felt it the way you feel things in dreams - certain knowledge without explanation. Her foot slamming the pedal, nothing happening, the car still moving. The terror in her face as she realized.

The other vehicle came from the left. Daeron saw it in fragments - grill, headlights, the sickening geometry of two objects occupying the same space at the same time. Metal screaming. Glass exploding outward in a thousand glittering pieces.

Her face, for just a moment. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

Then nothing. Silence. Smoke. The chemical smell of deployed airbags mixing with something worse - gasoline pooling, copper in the air.

The smell of death that hadn't happened yet.

This was different somehow. Sharper. More immediate. Like it was pressing against the present, trying to break through. The details were clearer than they'd ever been - he could almost read the street sign, almost see the time on the dashboard clock.

Almost. But not quite.

His hands shook as he reached for his phone. It was 2:26 AM. Too early to text. But if he waited, if he forgot - 

No. He couldn't risk it.

But what could he say? Don't drive? She probably didn't even have a car. They lived in New York. Nobody had cars.

The vision didn't make sense. Not yet. Not now.

He set his phone down, tried to breathe through the panic. The Ativan from last night should still be in his system. Should be keeping the panic at bay. Should be making this manageable.

It wasn't working.

The vision would come true eventually. He knew that. He'd always known that. But not today. Maybe not for months. Maybe not for years.

He stepped out onto the balcony, lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The night was cold, sharp. He smoked it halfway, watching the smoke curl into nothing.

Maybe he should take another Ativan. Just half a dose, just to get through the panic. His doctor had said as-needed was fine, in addition to the scheduled doses.

But he'd already taken two yesterday. One in the morning, one at night. Adding a third felt like... something. Felt like a line he shouldn't cross.

He stubbed out the cigarette, went back inside. Stared at the pill bottles on his bathroom counter.

He took another one. 

He tried to go back to sleep. Couldn't. Lay there counting ceiling cracks until dawn.

***

Days twenty-seven through twenty-nine were a blur.

The insomnia came back with a vengeance. Daeron slept maybe two hours each night despite the Ambien, and those were full of visions he couldn't control. The car crash, over and over. Her face through the windshield. The smell of death.

The meds weren't working anymore. Or they were working but it wasn't enough. He thought about asking for a higher dose again, but his next appointment wasn't for another month and he didn't want to seem like he was drug-seeking.

Even though he was. Kind of. He needed the meds to work better. Needed something to make the visions stop, to make the panic manageable, to let him sleep.

But he couldn't say that. Couldn't admit that the prescribed doses weren't cutting it anymore.

Dunk noticed, pushed him to see a therapist. Daeron promised he would, knowing he wouldn't. What would he even say? Hi, I see the future, can you prescribe something for that? Maybe some anti-psychotics? Oh, and by the way, I'm already on Ativan and Ambien but please don't tell my sponsor because I haven't mentioned that to anyone at AA.

Thursday meeting, day twenty-eight, she pulled him aside after.

"You okay? You look worse."

Daeron tried to smile. Failed. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Are you sleeping at all?"

"Not really."

"Eating?"

"When I remember."

"Daeron..." She looked genuinely worried. The kind of worried that made his chest tight, made him want to lie and say he was fine just to make that look go away. "You don't have to white-knuckle this alone. You've got people now."

"I'm not alone. I've got you. And Dunk. And Lyonel."

"Then let us help."

"You are helping. Just by being here."

She looked like she wanted to argue but didn't. Just squeezed his hand tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to feel real.

"Two more days to thirty."

"I know."

"You're going to make it."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're still here. That's how I know."

The faith in her voice was staggering. Like she couldn't conceive of a world where he gave up. Like his sobriety was as certain as gravity.

Daeron wanted to believe her. Wanted to borrow her certainty and wear it like armor.

They texted constantly those last few days. Her sending him recipes, him reading every word. Her checking in, making sure he ate, making sure he was okay. He didn't tell her about the visions. Didn't tell her that he saw her future ending in twisted metal and glass.

Didn't tell her that he couldn't save her.

Didn't tell her about the pills he took every day. The ones that that were supposed to help but weren't helping enough anymore. The fact that he was building a tolerance, needing more and more to get the same effect, and terrified of what that meant.

929-867-5309 [23:00]: Tomorrow's thirty. How does it feel?

Terrifying. [23:01]

929-867-5309 [23:02]: Why?

What if I can't do it? What if I get to thirty and it still feels this hard? [23:03]

929-867-5309 [23:05]: It will feel hard. But you’ll do it anyway. And then you’ll do day 31, 32… 

929-867-5309 [23:05]: One day at a time, remember?

One day at a time. [23:06]

929-867-5309 [23:08]: I'll be at the meeting tomorrow. You're not doing this alone.

Thank you [23:09]

929-867-5309 [23:10]: For what?

Everything. [23:11]

***

Day thirty came with clear skies and Dunk's call at eight.

"Thirty days. How's it feel?"

"Surreal."

"Good surreal or bad surreal?"

"Just surreal. I can't believe I made it."

"I can. I always knew you would." Dunk's voice was warm, proud. The pride felt unearned. Daeron hadn't done anything except not drink. The bar was so low it was practically subterranean. "Meeting tonight?"

"Yeah. I'll be there."

"Good. We're celebrating."

The day itself was long. Daeron tried to do normal things - grocery shopping, reading, existing. His hands shook less now than they had at day one. The nausea was mostly gone. He looked slightly less like a corpse.

Progress, he supposed. Or just the passage of time. Hard to tell the difference.

He took his morning Ativan. The routine so automatic now he barely registered it. Shake, swallow, chase. Medical necessity. 

He texted with her throughout the day.

Nervous about tonight [10:17]

929-867-5309 [10:32]: Why? It's a good thing.

I know. That's what makes it scary [10:33]

929-867-5309 [10:35]: You're allowed to be proud of yourself, you know.

I'm working on it. [10:37]

929-867-5309 [10:38]: Well I'm proud of you. For what it's worth.

It was worth everything. Her pride mattered more than his own. More than Dunk's, even. More than anything.

It was probably unhealthy.

The Tuesday meeting was packed. More people than usual, or maybe it just felt that way because Daeron was hyperaware of everything. Every face, every voice, every person who might bear witness to this moment.

Thirty days. He'd made it thirty days.

He arrived early. She was already there, saving him a seat.

"Hey. Thirty days."

"Thirty days."

"You made it." She hugged him tight, and he held on maybe a moment too long. Tried to memorize the feeling of being held. Of being celebrated. "I'm so proud of you."

The meeting started. Regular format, people sharing their stories. Daeron barely heard any of it. His mind kept drifting to the chip in Dunk's pocket, to what he was supposed to say, to whether he'd ever actually believed he could make it this far.

To whether thirty days meant anything at all when he'd failed so many times before.

To whether he was really sober when he took Ativan and Ambien every single day.

And then, after the meeting officially ended, Dunk stood.

"Hold up, everyone. Got something to say."

People settled back down, curious and warm.

"Official birthday meeting isn't until next week, but some things can't wait. Daeron here hit thirty days today."

Applause. Warm, genuine, from people who understood exactly how hard thirty days was.

"Say something!" Lyonel called from across the room, grinning like a proud parent. Like Daeron had done something worth celebrating instead of just managing not to destroy himself for a month.

Daeron stood, heart pounding. Looked around at faces that had become family.

"I'm Daeron, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Daeron."

"This is my thirtieth day." The words felt strange in his mouth. Heavy. Real. "I've been here before. Not here specifically, but - thirty days. I've hit thirty days and thought I had it figured out. Thought I could handle it from there. I was always wrong."

He looked at Dunk. Solid, steady Dunk who believed in him even when Daeron didn't believe in himself.

"This time I'm not pretending I have it figured out. I don't. But I've got people who won't let me disappear. Who check on me. Who make me show up even when I don't want to."

He looked at Lyonel. Loud, unfiltered Lyonel who made being broken seem okay.

"I've got people who went to Paris and had orgies and came back to tell us all about it. People who remind me that being sober doesn't mean being someone else."

Laughter rippled through the room.

He looked at her. His anchor. His reason for staying.

"And I've got people who really care. Who make me think maybe I'm worth the effort."

His voice was steady now. Clear. Like maybe he meant it.

"Thirty days. I made it. I don't know if I can do sixty. But I know I can try for thirty-one."

He took a breath. Let it out slow.

"One day at a time."

He sat down. She grabbed his hand immediately, squeezed it tight.

Dunk pulled out a chip - small, bronze, ‘one month’ stamped on it. "This is yours. You earned it."

It was heavier than Daeron remembered it being. Solid. Real. Proof that he'd done something, even if he wasn't sure what.

Even if he'd done it while taking benzodiazepines every single day.

Even if he didn't know whether that counted.

Handshakes. Hugs. Congratulations from people who understood.

After, they went to the diner - Dunk, Lyonel, her, and Daeron. Same booth as always, worn vinyl and terrible coffee and all.

"Thirty days," Lyonel said, raising his coffee cup. "Look at you. Actual human person, making actual human progress."

"Look at me."

He had made it to thirty days. Tomorrow, he would try for thirty-one. 

---

a/n: look at me finally updating this 'n' shit :)