Word count: ~900
Cw: substance use, unhealthy dynamics, manipulation
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The coffee table is a mess.
Bottles tipped on their sides, something crushed into powder on a plate, a lighter half-buried under clutter. The air hangs thick with smoke and alcohol, stale and heavy in Marcy’s lungs.
She’s sunk into the couch, legs tangled under her, head tipped back just enough that the ceiling blurs at the edges.
Tim’s right there beside her—close enough that she can feel the heat of him through the space between them. It’s subtle.
“So are you,” she murmurs.
Marcy turns her head slightly, eyes landing on him. It takes a second to focus, like she has to force him into place.
Her lips part slightly, something shifting in her expression. Less amused now.
Tim exhales slowly. “You know why.”
Marcy shifts, pushing herself up just enough to face him, closer now without fully realizing when it happened. Her knee presses into his thigh.
“You always act like you don’t want anything,” she says, softer now.
“And you act like you don’t mean anything you do.”
It’s unsteady—her balance off, her thoughts lagging—but there’s intent underneath it. Her hand lifts, clumsy but deliberate, landing against his chest.
“You don’t get to say that,” he says, voice lower.
Her fingers curl into his shirt, tugging him closer.
His hand comes up, settling at her waist. Firm. Grounding. Holding her there like he’s not letting her take it back.
“There,” she whispers. “That.”
The tension snaps tighter.
Her other hand lifts, brushing his jaw, thumb dragging unevenly along his cheek. She’s close enough now that her breath ghosts against his lips—too close, too easy.
“You don’t stop me,” she murmurs.
His grip tightens in response.
The distance disappears in fragments.
The first kiss is off—too much pressure, not enough coordination, more collision than anything soft. It should feel wrong.
Tim pulls her closer, his hand pressing into her side, anchoring her against him. Marcy reacts instantly, fingers tightening in his shirt as she leans into it instead of away.
It’s messy. Uneven. A little desperate.
The world narrows to contact—his hands, her grip, the way they keep pulling each other closer like it’s not enough no matter how close it gets.
There’s nothing careful about it.
Every time it pauses, it just starts again, like they’re both trying to prove something they can’t say out loud.
At some point, the couch shifts under them, space disappearing completely.
Neither of them pulls away.
Neither of them even tries.
The room is colder hours later.
Not really colder—just quieter. Emptier.
The haze is gone now, replaced by something sharper. Every thought lands clean, precise.
She’s still on the couch.
The table is still a mess.
And Tim is still right there.
His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel it anyway. Like it never really left.
Marcy stares at the table instead of him.
“…we shouldn’t have done that,” she says.
Tim doesn’t answer right away.
Marcy’s jaw tightens. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say.”
“I don’t know— something that doesn’t sound like you don’t care.”
Tim finally looks at her.
Marcy’s stomach twists. “Then say something that actually means that.”
“You’re the one who said it didn’t mean anything.”
Her chest tightens instantly. “I didn’t say that.”
The certainty in his voice makes something snap.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Marcy stands, needing space, but she doesn’t get far. Just enough to breathe without him right there.
“We were drunk,” she says. “High. That’s all it was.”
Tim watches her too closely.
“You don’t act like that with anyone else.”
Her shoulders tense. “You don’t know that.”
“Stop saying that like you—”
“Like I know you?” he cuts in, quieter now.
The interruption throws her off.
Tim exhales slowly, standing now, closing the distance just slightly.
“You came to me,” he says. “You always do.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You don’t do that with anyone else,” he continues. “You don’t look at anyone else like that.”
Her chest tightens harder now.
“I’m not doing that again,” she says. It sounds weak. Less certain.
Tim watches her for a long second.
Then, quieter—almost deliberate—
The certainty in it feels like a trap snapping shut.
Marcy swallows, her resolve slipping under the weight of it.
But she doesn’t step back.
The space between them stays exactly the same—too small, too charged, already leaning toward something that hasn’t happened yet.
Neither of them fixes it.
Because neither of them wants to.
And that’s what makes it worse.
