TW! Don't read if you suffer from any form of addiction, have PTSD, anxiety, or are prone to traumatic episodes. If you have these and are comfortable reading (like me) then proceed with caution. <3

—

Willow opened the trailer door quickly, taking a glance behind her cautiously and letting it sling shut.

Pedro lay back on the couch, head over the end, flopped towards her, glasses flat on the small coffee table.

She smiled at the sight.

"You came," he breathed out in mild surprise, his eyes wide and dazed.

"You really are stoned," she replied with a small grin.

"Want one?" He asked, pointing to the plate of chocolate brownies sitting next to his glasses.

Her eyes drifted to them longingly. She wanted to feel dazed again, feel like she was on cloud nine again. She wanted to let go of her troubles and drift away, feel as distant from the world as he was now.

She yearned for her head to go fuzzy and her thoughts to muddle, to be in complete ecstasy, to touch the sky, even if just for a moment. She craved it, more than anything else.

Her mom's face flashed before her eyes and Willow blinked slowly, trying to push it aside. She didn't have to take one. Or she could just take one? One wouldn't hurt, right?

He seemed to notice her stare and sobered a fraction, sitting up and looking between her and the plate.

His gaze softened.

"You're an addict."

He didn't say it cruelly. He didn't say it harshly or with judgment. He didn't even seem to pity her. He stated a fact.

The simple truth: she was an addict.

But coming from his mouth, the words she despised, the ones engraved in her very soul, she hated them. Her eyes watered and she tried to look away from the brownies, but she couldn't muster it.

She wanted to simultaneously throw them in the trash, grind them in a garbage disposal, light them on fire — something, to match the sheer rage she felt deep inside herself for wanting more. For wanting nothing more than to grab them and shove them into her mouth.

"Yeah," she said finally, her voice just above a whisper. "'S'pose I am."

He stood up quickly, taking the few short steps from the sofa to the door, resting his hands on her arms.

"Hey, look at me," he guided her face to his. She could see the red outline of his normally chestnut brown eyes, watching her with a dazed worry.

It made her want to cry.

She wished she could get high with him like it was nothing. That she was strong enough to stop at a small buzz. But she'd done enough damage with her addictions, and she couldn't, she wouldn't let it ruin her friendship — relationship? What was the correct word for them? — with Pedro.

"Princesa," he said quietly, reaching a hand up to her cheek. "Stop, stop, don't do that. Don't blame yourself, amor. I can throw them out, I'll — here give me just a second and I—"

Willow pulled away from him as he spoke, not letting him finish. Shaking her head and running form the trailer, feeling the oxygen trapped in her lungs, she tied to keep herself from crying.
She needed to get away from them, away from him.

Was this another coping mechanism? Was she moving from one addiction to the next? Was he her new addiction? She could only go so long without speaking to him — maybe this was convoluted punishment from powers that be to torment her after the accident.

She deserved it. She didn't deserve him. He was the sun; warm, radiant, loving. She was like rain; cold, cloudy, and only tolerable for so long. Inevitably, she killed the things around her. Drowned them in her own pain — she would do it with him, too. She was sure of it.

She let out a gasp as her feet hit the pavement, trying to breathe in fresh air, but all she could smell was smoke, and gasoline, and the bitter taste of alcohol.

Trembling, she couldn't feel the pavement beneath her sneakers anymore, the thin sweater over her shoulders, the thin fabric of her shorts — she felt blood, sticky, matted, all over her head and hands.

She turned to look, tried to see Pedro, but she couldn't find him. She turned to the left, seeing a woman, spluttering, blood seeping from her mouth.

"Mom?" She asked quietly, walking towards the woman. Her ankle hurt, it felt like it was on fire. But it wasn't. She limped on it, stumbling to her mother's crying body and fell to the ground in front of her.

She was stuck in the car, the stupid, stupid car, her head covered in blood, her mouth coughing and spluttering the same red substance.

In her chest was something metallic, she didn't know what, and she looked down in shocked curiosity.

She wondered if she should pull it out. Would that help her mom?

"Mommy?" She asked again, tears falling down her cheeks. Her mom spluttered, barely registering Willow's presence.

"Mom," Willow reached a hand over to her mom and cupped her face in her hand. "Mommy, please, Mom, look at me."

Her mom didn't respond, just chocked on her own blood, eyes widening in fear before the familiar warmth normally found within them was gone.

Her head sank to her chest and Willow trembled next to her, shaking her head and pleading for her to wake up.

"Momma," she shook her body lightly, only for her head to lull over to the right side. "Mom?" Her voice broke, tears falling down her face and mangling into her dampened hair.

"Please, Mom," she choked out, sobbing as her mother's breath came no more.

"Mom? Mom? Mom!"

—

Willow awoke with a start, shaking and sweating, looking around the room with wide eyes.

It was unfamiliar. Small.

A small room, barely the size of her closet back home, with a large mattress and a small tv hooked up on the wall.

Green silk sheets and a large black comforter donned the bed, and in any other situation she may have commented how oddly reminiscent of Harry Potter's Slytherin colors they were.

But she was too preoccupied trying to figure out where she was to care. And the headache. A throbbing sensation pulsated at her temples and threatened to consume her entirely. She wished the bed would swallow her whole and hide her for eternity.

"Hey," she heard a soft voice. Her head snapped up and her entire body relaxes, spotting Pedro at the door, a crease between his brows. "How're you feeling?"

How was she feeling?

"Fine," she muttered. "How long was I out for?"

"Just a few hours. It's barely 3am."

"And you waited that long?" She raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"You passed out," he shrugged, watching her carefully. "Blacked out, really. I think you were triggered by the—" he stopped himself, watching her still, eyes never veering. "And you blacked out. I went outside after you left, and you passed out right into my arms. Brought you back in here and let you rest." He shook his head then, a remorseful look crossing his handsome features. "I'm sorry."

"Why're you sorry?"

"I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have brought you over. I'm so sorry."

He looked deeply apologetic, and it tugged at her heart. Guilt nearly shredded her heart in two. He shouldn't be apologizing for her addiction. She should've mentioned it. She should've stayed away from him.

"No, I'm sorry. I should've—I should've stayed in my own trailer. Matter of fact, I'm just going to—"

He was in front of her before she could finish her sentence.

"Lay here until you're rested? Sounds like a good idea to me."

"Pedro, I can't just take your bed."

"You can and you will," he told her sternly, kneeling down and taking her hands in his. "Cariño, if not for yourself, then for me. I was so worried about you."

"You didn't call anyone though?" She looked behind him, noticing the lack of policeman, paparazzi, and whomever else he should've called.

"I called your dad right after you blacked out. I thought about the paramedics, but you were breathing fine, and he said to just keep you still. He said you have PTSD?"

"Yeah," She nodded, looking away from him. "Because of my mom," her voice cracked.

He took in a breath, squeezing her hands gently.

"I did too, for a while. My mom committed suicide," he confessed to her quietly, his face pained, but remained soft. As though he'd grown accustomed to the pain.

"When I was twenty-four, just a little younger than you. It hurt like hell and every day I blamed myself. I used to wake up and hate myself for not being enough for her. So much that I caused incredible damage to myself. I didn't shower or eat. I was scared of everything; loud noises, crowded places, I didn't like being home. I got reckless, went drinking all the time, got into bar fights.

"I was so angry. At everything. At her for leaving, at myself for not making her stay. At my dad for not knowing how to stop her. But I started to realize that I had to live the best life I could, for her. She didn't get that life; she'd given up before it could become beautiful again. And I wasn't going to take advantage of that. And I had to let go of the anger and regret, because it was getting me nowhere."

"I didn't know that," Willow replied softly.

"I haven't really talked about it," he shrugged, rubbing his thumbs along the palms of her hands. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, I am." At his look she nodded surer of herself. "I am. Once a week. She's really been helping but I just...sometimes I have bad nights and sometimes I have good nights. And seeing — I thought I could be around, but it was—"

"—Hey," he squeezed her hands, bringing her attention back to him. "You don't have to explain, Princesa. I'm here if you need to but you don't have to."

She nodded, silent for a long time with him kneeled in front of her, quiet, running his fingers along her hands.

She appreciated his comfort, felt swallowed in it. He was warm and gentle and good, everything she herself felt the opposite of.

After a long pause, she met his eyes, which hadn't moved from her face since he last spoke.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course," he answered immediately. "I can take the couch and—"

"—No!" She blurred out, faster and harsher than she'd meant it. "No," she corrected, still on edge after the flashback. "I want — I mean if you want to, can we—can you hold me?"

"Of course," he said again, sterner this time. "Lay back," he ordered her gently. She did as told, pushing herself back against the pillows.

They were softer than hers in her trailer, though she shouldn't expect any less. He moved to climb in next to her and reached a hand up to her face.

He brushed back a piece of her hair and ran his thumb along her cheek.

"Rest, Princesa. I'm right here."

"Promise?" She asked weakly, not caring how childish it sounded. He moved closer to her, their legs touching. "You won't go anywhere?"

His sweats covered him, pressed against her, the fabric soft against her bare legs. She wondered briefly if his legs were as soft and warm as the rest of him; his hands, his lips on her cheek — she wanted to know what the sun felt like against her completely. She wanted his warmth to consume her, to push away every dark cloud and replace them with his comforting sunshine.

She wanted to move closer to him, pull herself into his arms, but she refrained. She didn't want to upset him, to make ruin this gentle disposition. He was so kind to her, gentle and soft, she didn't want him to pull away in disgust — the last straw after her episode.

As though reading her thoughts, he moved his hand from her head and wrapped it around her waist, tugging her closer to him and pressing a gentle kiss to her head.

His hand remained at her waist, running along the fabric of her shirt gently — he'd taken off her sweater, she realized, but the tank top remained — and she closed her eyes.

Just before sleep captured her, she heard his voice speak through the darkness, a finality in his voice she hadn't heard from him before.

"I promise, Willow."

—