Chapter 2: The Bottle Between Them
The knock came at ten past nine.
Hannah surfaced from sleep like a swimmer clawing toward light, her limbs heavy, her mouth tasting of copper and regret. The sound was soft but deliberate. Not a roommate's casual rap. Not the RA's authoritative thump. Three measured knocks, spaced evenly, the kind that said I'm not leaving.
She didn't move. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still, whoever it was would assume she was dead. That seemed preferable.
The knock came again. Same rhythm. Patient. Persistent.
She dragged herself upright, her head pounding a dull, throbbing protest. The room swam into focus. Dark curtains, half-drawn. The faint smell of old wine and something earthier beneath it, like wet leaves and ink from the calligraphy set she'd bought freshman year and never used. Her bed was a tangle of sheets, the floral tattoo on her right arm catching the pale morning light that bled through the curtain's edge.
She was still wearing last night's clothes. The black hoodie. The jeans that stuck to her skin like a second, shameful layer.
Another knock.
"Coming," she croaked, her voice a rusted hinge. She didn't move for another thirty seconds. Then she forced herself up, her joints creaking, and shuffled to the door.
She knew who it was before she opened it. She could feel him through the cheap wood, like a change in air pressure. When she pulled the door open, the hallway light hit her like a physical assault.
Jay stood there, hands in the pockets of his worn canvas jacket. His dark hair was damp, like he'd showered recently. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe, blocking out the fluorescent glare. He looked tired. More than tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there last week, bruises of sleeplessness that made him look older than twenty-two.
"Morning," he said.
Hannah leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. She knew how she looked. The hollow eyes. The pale, waxy skin. The hoodie that hung off her like a shroud. She didn't care. Or she did care, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.
"It's not morning," she said. "It's basically afternoon."
"It's nine-fifteen."
"Exactly. The ass-crack of dawn."
He didn't smile. That was the first sign something was wrong. Jay always smiled. Even when things were bad, he found a way to crack a joke, to ease the tension. But today, his face was a closed door.
"Can I come in?"
She should have said no. She should have slammed the door and crawled back into her cave and pretended this wasn't happening. But her body moved before her brain could object, stepping aside, letting him through.
He walked into her room like he'd been there a hundred times, which he had. He knew the geography of her small space as well as she did. But today, his eyes moved differently. They scanned the room with a new awareness, cataloging. The closed curtains. The rumpled bed. The empty water glass on the nightstand. The faint, sickly smell of stale alcohol that no amount of Febreze could hide.
She shuffled back to her bed and curled up against the wall, pulling the duvet up to her chin. A defensive position. A fox gone to ground.
Jay didn't sit on the bed. He pulled the wooden chair from her desk and positioned it a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to give her space. He'd always been good at that. Reading her body language. Knowing when to push and when to retreat.
"You look like shit," he said.
"Thanks. You always know how to make a girl feel special."
"I'm serious, Hannah." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You were in bad shape last night."
"I was fine."
"You were drinking straight vodka from a Solo cup and letting some random guy drool on you."
She winced. The memory was fuzzy, a collection of blurry images and sharp, uncomfortable feelings. The guy's breath. His hand on her arm. The way she'd wanted to disappear into the wall behind her.
"I was handling it," she muttered.
"You were handling it." He repeated her words like they were a foreign language he was trying to translate. "That's what you call handling it?"
"I didn't ask you to come get me."
"No. You didn't." His voice was quiet. Controlled. "But I did anyway. Because that's what I do. I show up. Even when you don't want me to."
Guilt twisted in her stomach, sharp and acidic. She hated this. She hated the way he looked at her now, like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Like she was broken and he was determined to find the missing pieces. She wasn't a puzzle. She was a wreck. There was a difference.
"I need water," she said, mostly to escape his gaze. She swung her legs off the bed and shuffled toward the kitchenette. Her head throbbed with every step, a dull, insistent drumbeat. She opened the cabinet above the sink, reaching for a glass.
And then she reached past it. Her fingers found the familiar shape, the cool, smooth neck of the bottle she'd stashed there two days ago. A fresh one. Full. She pulled it down without thinking, her body moving on instinct, muscle memory.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Jay's voice was behind her, close and sharp. She hadn't heard him move. She turned, the bottle in her hand, and found him standing a foot away, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the vodka.
"Just—I was going to—"
He took it from her. Not roughly. Just a simple, firm motion. He plucked the bottle from her hand like it was a toy she wasn't old enough to play with. He set it on the counter behind him, out of her reach.
"Sit down," he said.
"I don't need to sit down."
"Hannah. Sit. Down."
She wanted to argue. The fight rose in her throat, a hot, defensive thing. But she was so tired. So goddamn tired. She sank into the wooden chair he'd vacated, her body folding in on itself.
Jay didn't sit. He stood over her, arms crossed, looking down. Not angry. Not yet. Just... resolved. Like he'd made a decision and was waiting for her to catch up.
"Talk to me," he said.
"About what?"
"About why you're drinking yourself to death in this room alone."
"I'm not—"
"Don't." He cut her off, his voice hard. "Don't lie to me. Not right now. I found the bottles under your desk last night. Six of them. Six, Hannah."
Her blood went cold. The floor dropped out from under her. He knew. He'd been there. He'd seen.
"You went through my stuff?"
"I put you to bed. You were passed out. I wasn't snooping. I was—" He stopped, running a hand through his damp hair. "I was looking for your charger. And I found them. Just sitting there. Like a fucking trophy case of your own destruction."
She stared at the floor. The wood grain. The small stain near the leg of the chair. Anything but his face. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
"It's not a big deal," she whispered.
"Not a big deal?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You have a problem, Hannah. A serious problem. And I've been watching you drown for two years and pretending I couldn't see it because I was too scared to say anything. But I'm not scared anymore."
The words hit her like a slap. Two years. Had it been that long? Had she been hiding it that well? Or had he just been pretending not to notice, giving her the grace of his silence?
"You don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice rising. "You don't know anything about me. Not really."
"I know you used to laugh. Like, really laugh. The kind where you couldn't breathe. I know you used to text me at three in the morning with random facts about octopuses. I know you used to walk around campus with your head up, like you owned the place. And now you walk around like you're trying to make yourself smaller. Like you're apologizing for existing."
"People change."
"Not like this." He crouched down, bringing himself to her level. His face was close now, and she could see the care in his eyes, the frustration, the fear. "Something happened to you. After freshman year. You disappeared. And when you came back, you were... different. Dimmer. Like someone had turned off a light inside you."
She flinched. The words were too accurate. Too close to the bone.
"I know what that's like," he said, his voice dropping. "To feel like something broke and you can't figure out how to fix it. To carry something heavy and pretend it doesn't weigh anything."
She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"
He hesitated. She could see him wrestling with something, a decision balanced on a knife's edge. Then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. This isn't about me. This is about you. You need help, Hannah. Real help."
"I don't need help." The words came out sharp, defensive. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice rose, a crack in his carefully maintained composure. "You're drinking enough vodka to pickle a horse and hiding the evidence like an alcoholic in a bad movie. You flinch every time someone touches you. You haven't been on a date in two years. You barely leave your room except to go to class or get drunk. You're not fine, Hannah. You're drowning. And I'm the only one who seems to notice."
"You're not the only one," she snapped. "Abby knows. My brother knows. They just don't—" She stopped, the words catching in her throat.
"They just don't what? Care? Push? Try to break through that wall you've built?"
"They know to leave it alone."
"Then they're idiots." The words were hard, final. "Or they're scared. Same as me. But I'm done being scared."
She stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. Her head swam, the room tilting wildly before it righted itself.
"You don't get to do this," she said, her voice shaking. "You don't get to barge in here and play therapist. You don't know. You don't know what it's like. You don't know anything."
"Then tell me." He stood too, his presence filling the small space. "Tell me what happened. Tell me what I don't know."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't!" The words tore out of her, raw and jagged. "Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And I can't—I can't let it be real."
"It's already real, Hannah. It's been real for two years. The only thing that's fake is the smile you put on when people are watching."
"Stop it." Her voice cracked. "Just stop."
"I'm not going to stop. I'm not going to let you drink yourself into the ground and pretend it's fine. I'm not going to let you disappear."
"You don't have a choice."
"I'm making one."
She shoved him. Both hands against his chest, a hard, sudden push that made him stumble back a step. It was the most physical contact between them in months, and it was violent, ugly. Her heart wasn't in it. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to push him away, make him leave, make him stop seeing her.
But he didn't move. Not really. He just stood there, absorbing the blow, his eyes locked on hers.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"No, you don't."
"I do. I hate you. I hate that you see me. I hate that you keep showing up. I hate that you won't just let me be broken in peace."
"Tough." His voice was quiet. Steady. "You can hate me all you want. I'm not leaving."
She shoved him again, weaker this time. Her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. She could feel the tears building behind her eyes, hot and insistent, and she hated them too. She hated everything.
"You don't understand," she gasped. "You don't understand what he did to me."
Jay went very still. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Who?" The word was a single, jagged syllable. "Who did something to you?"
She opened her mouth. The words were right there, at the tip of her tongue, a confession that had been locked inside her chest for two years. Tell him. Just tell him. Let it out. But the fear was stronger. The shame was stronger. The memory of that night was still a living thing, a monster that lived in her closet and crawled out when she was alone.
"I can't," she choked. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll look at me differently. You'll see me differently. You'll know what I am."
"What you are?" He stepped closer, his voice raw. "What you are is my best friend. What you are is the person I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "What you are doesn't change because of what someone did to you."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that."
"You can't." She was crying now, tears spilling down her cheeks, hot and ugly. "You can't know that because you don't know what happened. And I can't tell you. I can't—"
"Hey." His voice softened. "Hey. Look at me."
She couldn't. She stared at the floor, her body heaving with silent sobs.
"Hannah. Look at me."
She lifted her head. His eyes were wet. Jay, who never cried, who hadn't cried since he was twelve years old, had tears in his eyes.
"Whatever it is," he said, "whatever happened, it doesn't change anything. You're still you. You're still the girl who laughs at my dumb jokes. The girl who knows more about octopuses than anyone should. The girl I—" He stopped again, his throat working. "You're still you. And I'm still here. I've always been here. And I'm not going anywhere."
The last of her resistance crumbled. The wall she'd built, the fortress of vodka and oversized hoodies and snappy comebacks—it all fell apart, and she was left standing in the rubble, exposed and shaking and so, so tired.
She didn't remember moving. One second she was standing, and the next she was folded into his chest, her face buried against the worn cotton of his shirt. His arms came around her, careful at first, then tighter, pulling her in like he was trying to hold her together with sheer physical force.
She cried. Not the delicate, pretty crying of movies. The ugly, snotty, gasping kind. Her body shook with the force of it, each sob tearing through her like a knife. She cried for the girl she used to be, the one who had been stolen in at a party she barely remembered. She cried for the years she'd spent pretending, for the bottles she'd hidden, for the pieces of herself she'd scattered and never been able to gather back.
Jay didn't say anything. He just held her. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on her back. His chin rested on the top of her head. His heartbeat was steady against her ear, a metronome of presence, of patience.
She didn't know how long they stood there. Minutes. Hours. Time had stopped meaning anything. The only thing that mattered was the warmth of him, the solidity, the way he didn't let go even when her tears soaked through his shirt and her fingers clawed at his back like she was afraid he'd disappear.
Eventually, the sobs subsided. The shaking eased. She stayed pressed against him, her face hidden, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into his chest.
"Don't be."
"I didn't mean what I said. About hating you."
"I know."
"I just—I'm scared."
"Me too."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn. But there was something else there, something steady and fierce and unshakable.
"You're a mess," she said, a ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.
"You're one to talk."
"Fair."
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was so gentle, so tender, that it made her chest ache. She didn't flinch. For the first time in two years, she didn't flinch at a man's touch.
"I'm going to help you," he said. "Whether you want me to or not. I'm going to be here. Every day. Annoying the shit out of you. Making sure you eat. Making sure you sleep. Making sure you don't disappear."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to." He smiled, a small, sad curve of his lips. "I want to."
She didn't have the energy to argue. She didn't even want to. The fight had gone out of her, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made her legs feel like water.
"I'm tired," she murmured.
"I know." He guided her back to the bed, easing her down onto the rumpled sheets. She curled onto her side, facing the wall. She heard him moving around the room. The click of the curtain being pulled back, letting in a wash of pale grey light. The sound of water running in the sink. The soft thud of the bottle he'd confiscated being placed, she assumed, out of reach.
Then the mattress dipped as he sat on the edge. His hand found her shoulder, warm and grounding.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She closed her eyes. The tears had left her feeling hollowed out, scraped clean. For the first time in a long time, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter. Not gone. Not fixed. But lighter.
She was asleep in minutes, her breathing evening out, her body relaxing into the mattress.
Jay sat there, watching her. The floral tattoo on her arm was fully visible now, a delicate sprawl of roses and vines that wrapped around her slender forearm. He'd never known she had it. There was so much he didn't know. So much she'd kept hidden.
He thought about his own secrets. The ones he'd never told anyone. His father, rotting in a prison cell, a murderer. His mother, a memory he couldn't fully recall, just a vague warmth and the smell of lavender. The reason he couldn't sleep at night, the reason he pushed people away, the reason he'd never told Hannah how he really felt.
She'd laid a piece of her pain at his feet. Not the whole thing. Not the core of it. But enough. Enough to crack the door open. And he'd almost told her his own. He'd almost let the words spill out. But something had stopped him. Maybe it wasn't the right time. Maybe he needed to be her anchor right now, not another weight to carry.
But soon. Soon he'd tell her. He'd show her that they were both broken, both carrying things too heavy for one person. He'd show her that they could carry them together.
He pulled the duvet up over her shoulders, tucking it around her like he'd done the night before. His fingers brushed her cheek, lingering for just a moment.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."
She didn't respond, but her hand, tucked under her pillow, relaxed. The tension in her jaw softened. She looked, for the first time in years, peaceful.
He didn't know how long he stayed. The light through the window shifted, grey turning to pale gold. Students passed in the hallway, their voices a distant hum. His phone buzzed in his pocket—someone from work, probably, wondering where he was. He didn't answer.
He just sat there, watching her sleep, guarding her dreams. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The sun climbed higher, spilling light across the floor. The empty bottle from the cabinet sat on the counter, a silent witness. Jay looked at it, then at Hannah, then back at the bottle.
One problem at a time. First, he'd make sure she was safe. Then he'd make her eat something. Then—maybe—he'd figure out how to tell her everything.
But right now, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
He settled back in the chair, pulling out his phone to text his boss. Something had come up. He couldn't make it in today. Family emergency.
Because that's what she was. Family. The only family he had left.
And he'd burn the whole world down before he let anything happen to her.