I come out of the nightmare gasping, whole body clammy, heart pounding so hard it hurts. That chemical rush of adrenaline burns bitterly in my mouth. I can’t shake the vision of Rhea leaving, her taillights cutting away, or the terrible hollowness that hits when it happens. Even awake, I’m gripped by the certainty that I’m alone again.

It was just a dream. She’s not leaving.

She’s asleep in her own bed fifteen minutes away, probably curled up with one of her romance novels on the nightstand and her phone charging beside her pillow. She told me she loved me just two days ago. She’s not going anywhere.

My mind refuses reassurance, and my logic is drowned beneath a louder voice that screams, “She’s leaving, and you can’t stop her.”

My head doesn’t care what’s real. It only cares about fear.

Every time I close my eyes, the dream returns. Rhea packs her things all over again, telling me she can’t do this anymore, walking away while I stand frozen, unable to move or speak.

By six am, I give up on sleep. I make coffee and try to focus on the song I’ve been working on for weeks, The Ballad of Us, meant to be a love letter to Rhea. The words have proven more difficult to find than any other song I’ve written in or since rehab. Every line I write sounds hollow, as if I’m trying to convince myself of something I don’t believe. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, using Bruce’s technique. It doesn’t help today. This song was supposed to be my declaration at our next gig—a promise under the bright lights. The anxiety over the song looms, reminding me that it needs to prove the love I often doubt I deserve.

The guys start stirring around eight, and I can feel their eyes on me as they filter into the kitchen for breakfast. I know I look like hell. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and saw hollow eyes, pale skin, and the kind of exhaustion that goes bone deep.

“You okay, brother?” Andrew asks quietly, pouring himself coffee and studying my face with the careful attention of a loved one who’s spent years watching for warning signs.

“Fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” I lie.

“Nightmares?” Parker asks, because of course, he remembers that nightmares have always been one of my triggers.

“Something like that.”

They exchange glances, and I can see the worry starting to creep in. The protective instincts that kept me alive during my worst days are kicking in, and suddenly I feel suffocated by their concern.

“I’m going to work outside on the porch. Try to finish this song.” I grab my guitar and my notebook.

Outside on the porch, silence presses in, heavy and oppressive. Every chord sounds off, and the music feels trapped. My attempts at The Ballad of Us fall out of sync. The lyrics I once felt proud of now read like amateur poetry.

What if I’m unable to finish it? What if I can’t write about love because I don’t believe I deserve it? What if the nightmares are my subconscious trying to tell me that Rhea will eventually realize she’s making a mistake?

By noon, I’m restless. The hope from the morning, thin as it was, has faded into old, jittery dread. Every nerve ending feels raw, and that familiar energy builds in my chest. It’s the sensation that once sent me to the liquor cabinet to find a drink to quiet my mind. I recognize the shift as anxiety edges out willpower.

A drink would help—just one, to take the edge off and silence the voice that keeps whispering that I’m going to lose everything again. I just need a sip to help me catch my breath again.

But I don’t do it.

One hundred and thirty-seven days of sobriety aren’t worth throwing away for a few hours of reprieve from my inner turmoil. I remind myself that the urge is temporary and repeat Bruce’s mantra of “This too shall pass”. I pace the porch, fighting the pull to self-destruct.

The worst part is that I know this is a normal part of the process. Bruce warned me about days like this. The random bad days that hit without warning, when everything feels harder and your brain tries to convince you that drinking is the solution. He taught me coping strategies, breathing exercises, and provided me with phone numbers to call.

But I don’t want to call anyone. Admitting that recovery isn’t all meditation and support brings a certain shame, exposing a fear of not being enough. I don’t want Rhea to know I woke believing she’d leave again. Maybe admitting this is the first step, and recognizing that asking for help doesn’t mean I’m failing.

But I isolate instead, which is exactly what I’m not supposed to do. I silence my phone and create a barrier between myself and the outside world. The quiet is both a refuge and a trap, holding me in my spiraling thoughts.

Around two, Andrew appears on the back porch. “Rhea’s here. She’s looking for you.” The expression he’s wearing tells me she’s as worried about me as he is.

My stomach drops. “I didn’t go to Mountain Mornings this morning.”

“We noticed. So did she,” he confirms.

Shit. My daily coffee run has become so routine that missing it was like sending up a flare that all was not okay. Of course, she noticed. Of course, she came to check on me.

I find her in the kitchen, still in her work clothes with her honey blonde hair in its end-of-shift ponytail. She looks up when I enter, and I watch her face change as she takes in my appearance.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” she asks, careful not to sound anything less than gentle.

“Fine.” The lie comes automatically, but her expression tells me she’s not buying it for a second.

“Gray.” She approaches slowly, like I’m a spooked horse she doesn’t want to startle. “You missed coffee this morning. That’s not like you.”

“I was working on a song. Lost track of time.” I’m shorter than I should be, but I’m having a bad day, and everyone here is looking at me like I might drive off to a bar any minute.

She studies my face for a long moment with those knowing green eyes, then nods toward the living room where the guys are pretending to watch TV while obviously eavesdropping.

“Can we go to the back porch? Get some air?” She’s trying to get me alone to talk without embarrassing me.

I don’t deserve her grace because I want to say no and retreat to my misery, but there’s a fear in her voice that stops me. It’s like she knows exactly what’s happening and isn’t going to let me hide from it.

The afternoon air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and the approach of early winter. We settle on the chairs around a table on the back porch, and I can sense Rhea’s eyes on me as I stare out at the mountains.

“Talk to me,” she says quietly.

“Nothing to talk about. Just a rough day.”

“Gray.” Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with the kind of gentle pressure that somehow makes everything feel a little less overwhelming. “I love you, which means I’m not going anywhere, but it also means you can’t lie to me about how you’re doing.”

The words hit harder than they should, maybe because they are the exact fears that have been eating at me all day.

“You say that now,” I mutter.

“Say what now?”

I take a long breath, bracing. “You say you’re not leaving, but you said it before. You still left.” My voice betrays every ache. I can’t keep the fear out. It hangs there, waiting for judgment or distance in her eyes. Instead, I see patience. Still, the words don’t undo the tightness inside me.

“I left because staying was killing me slowly. I left because you were choosing alcohol over me every single day, and I couldn’t watch you destroy yourself anymore.” There’s no malice or defensiveness in her voice, just a gentle explanation.

“And what’s to stop that from happening again?” The question comes out raw and vulnerable, exposing the fear that’s been clawing at me since the nightmares started.

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I brace myself for platitudes or promises that we both know might not be enough. “Nothing. There’s no guarantee, Gray. I can’t promise I’ll never leave again, and you can’t promise you’ll never relapse. That’s not how life works.” Her words acknowledge the uncertainty, but there’s strength in facing it. Maybe love isn’t a promise but a practice. Accepting uncertainty allows hope and fear to coexist, providing a way forward.

“That’s not exactly comforting.” I blow out an exasperated breath because I’m tired of my own shit today.

“I’m not trying to comfort you. I’m trying to be honest with you.” She shifts to face me more fully, and her green eyes are steady and clear. “But I can promise that I won’t leave over one bad day. I won’t leave because you’re struggling or because sobriety is hard or because you’re human enough to have fears and nightmares.”

My head snaps to hers again in shock. “How do you know about the nightmares?”

“Because I know you, and because I’ve been having them too.” Her confession stops me cold.

“You have?” My voice betrays my surprise.

“Different versions of the same theme. You’re drinking again, and I have to walk away a second time. It’s us destroying each other all over again.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s scary, loving a person in recovery, but it’s also scary being an addict in recovery. We’re both taking risks here.”

Her confession eases the knot in my chest, the first real shift away from isolation I’ve felt all day. For a moment, I’m not the only one haunted by impossibly dark futures. I’m not alone in seeing disaster in the shape of love, and that simple realization loosens the grip my fear has on me. Relief starts to settle in.

“I wanted to drink today,” I admit quietly, pausing to give her time to react. She doesn’t. “Not because I was craving alcohol exactly, but because everything felt too loud and too much, and I wanted it to stop.” As I wrestle with the admission, a metallic taste clings to the back of my tongue, and my jaw feels tightly wound, like it’s ready to snap. The sensations are fleeting but potent, remnants of a stress response my body knows too well.

“Did you drink?” Her tone is even and lacks any ill will.

“No, but I wanted to. I hated that I wanted to.” I hang my head, ashamed beyond measure that I craved the one thing that would send Rhea running for the hills again.

“That’s normal, Gray. Wanting something that’s bad for you doesn’t make you weak or broken. It makes you human.” She’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “Are you still seeing the therapist Bruce set you up with? Or have you considered holding a meeting here? A sponsor?”

The suggestion stings a little, like she’s questioning whether I’m taking my recovery seriously enough. But when I look at her face, there’s no malice there, only concern.

“Dr. Hannah and I do video sessions twice a week, but it’s not the same as being in the room with her or Bruce. The sessions help remind me that I’m not alone in this and provide a space to explore my fears, even if they don’t offer a magic fix. And there’s probably a meeting nearby. It could present a chance to connect with others who understand the struggle firsthand.” I do my best to allay her fears and my own.

“There’s a meeting. I looked it up weeks ago, just in case.” She pulls out her phone and shows me a screenshot of meeting times and locations. “Not because I was expecting you to struggle, but because I wanted to be prepared if you did.”

The thoughtfulness of the way she’s been quietly looking out for my recovery, even when I wasn’t asking for it, makes my throat tight with emotion. “You researched meetings for me?”

“I researched a lot of things. Meetings, therapists, and what to do if someone you love is having a bad day.” She tucks her phone away and looks at me seriously. “I’m not the same person who left you, Gray. I’m not going to enable you or pretend everything’s fine when it’s not, but I’m also not going to panic every time you have a rough day.”

“What if it’s more than a rough day? What if I drink?” I ask, wanting to know if the worst happens, then where do we stand?

“Then we’ll figure it out together, if you want to. But we can always figure it out separately, if that’s what’s healthiest.” Her voice is steady and matter-of-fact. “But one bad day doesn’t erase one hundred thirty-seven good ones. One nightmare doesn’t predict the future.”

She’s right, and in the rational part of my brain, I know she’s right. The nightmares aren’t prophecies. They’re just my anxiety trying to protect me from pain by convincing me the worst is inevitable.

“I’m sorry for today, for pushing everyone away, and for making you worry.” I feel like a total asshole, making her and the guys worry unnecessarily.

“You don’t have to apologize for struggling. You just have to let us help when you are.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The restless energy that’s been building in my chest all day begins to settle, replaced by something that feels like peace.

“So,” Rhea says eventually, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Ready to go inside and let the guys fuss over you? Because they’ve been hovering by the window for the past twenty minutes, and I think Parker’s about to vibrate out of his skin with worry.”

I glance toward the house and catch sight of five familiar faces quickly disappearing from the living room window.

“Subtle as always,” I mutter, but I’m smiling for the first time all day.

“They love you. Let them show it.”

Inside, the guys are arranged around the living room in poses of elaborate casualness that fool absolutely no one. Andrew is reading a magazine upside down. Parker is flipping through TV channels so fast that the images blur together. Zep is organizing a stack of books that were perfectly organized yesterday.

“We’re playing Cards Against Humanity, and before you say you’re not in the mood, we already set up the cards. Rhea brought snacks from the coffee shop, and it would be a travesty to let them go to waste,” Parker announces without preamble.

“I don’t get a vote in this?” I ask.

“Nope. Democracy is suspended when one of us is having a shitty day.” Wyatt’s new rule makes me chuckle.

“House rules. Now sit down and prepare to be horrified by our collective lack of moral compass.” Parker pats the couch cushion beside him.

What follows is three hours of the most inappropriate, ridiculous, and healing card game in human history. The guys pull out all the stops to make me laugh, combining cards in ways that would make angels weep and devils applaud. Parker plays a card pairing ‘relapse’ with ‘winning the lottery,’ which makes us all groan and chuckle, a nod to the absurdity of how the wrong choices can, at times, be too tempting. Rhea fits right into the chaos, reading cards with such a deadpan delivery that even sly jabs nearly cause me to fall off the couch laughing.

By the time we’re too tired to continue, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I notice the emotional shift. The crushing weight that’s been on my chest all day has lifted. As I sense this lightness, I realize the nightmares feel distant, like they happened to someone else, in another lifetime where I wasn’t convinced love could survive bad days. Joy and calm replace the fear and dread from earlier.

“Better?” Rhea asks as the guys clean up the cards, her hand finding mine automatically.

“Much better. Thank you.”

“For what?” Her smile is so gentle and full of love.

“For not leaving when I had a bad day. For researching meetings. For staying even when I was being an ass.” I sigh at myself for behaving the way I did.

“Gray.” She turns to face me fully, her expression serious. “I’m not going anywhere because of a bad day. Or a bad week. Or even a bad month, as long as you’re fighting to get better. The only way you lose me is if you stop trying.”

“And if I drink again?” It’s my biggest fucking fear.

“Then we’ll figure out what comes next. But I’m not making decisions based on what-ifs. I’m making them based on what’s real, what’s now, what’s actually happening.”

What’s real is that I made it through a bad day without drinking. I’m surrounded by people who care, and I am learning to accept help. Bad days are just moments. They don’t define me.

It’s not perfect. Sobriety isn’t a straight line, and there will be more bad days ahead. But for the first time since the nightmares started, I believe that the bad days don’t have to define the story.

Love might not be enough to cure addiction, but it’s enough to make the fight worthwhile. That’s all I need to keep going.