Struck is a good word for it. He's seen her work, and of course, Minna talks about her all the time, but it's very different to meet her. She's gorgeous, which is obvious to anyone who looks in her direction, but that's not the whole of it. There's an energy, a light that she exudes that he can't tear his eyes way from. It's an attraction that he has no control over, and even as he talks with her for a while, he's not his usual self. There is no gradual progression that would lead the two of them out the door together. There's not even an attempt to invade her personal space as soon as he sees something resembling a green light.

At the end of the night, there's a slightly awkward semi-hug as everyone is saying their goodbyes, and he mentions how good it was to meet her. He's asking her if she wants to get dinner before he can even process that he's asking her out. It's instinct, something unavoidable. He laughs because she's so surprised and it's so goddamn cute. He doesn't realize he's been holding a breath until she says yes and he releases it.

Something about her is just ... different.

It's been weeks and he feels like he's going insane. It's an exaggeration, and he knows it, but he's so far outside of his usual MO, that it doesn't feel that way. The last time he's waited this long was probably ... well, when he was a virgin. She makes it hard to be patient in the same breath that she makes it unbelievably easy. The hard, obviously, is the pull-back when they're making out on his couch, or when his hands instinctively begin to wander and he knows better. The easy, because he actually respects her -- god help him, he respects the hell out of her. He wants to take his time, which is fucking terrifying, but she makes it seem safe to do so. She's not going to be a notch on his bedpost or someone he sleeps with for a while before boredom or something else gets in the way. She makes it easy, because he knows she's worth it.

She breaks down pieces of him he doesn't want her to. She makes him laugh -- and not just some random jovial feeling, but the real belly kind of laugh over the littlest things. She makes him feel good about himself -- which, might be the biggest feat of all. She makes him feel like he might deserve something good, or at the very least, that he could have something this good. Have her, more than a few fun dates.

It strikes him so hard and so out of nowhere, it takes the breath from his lungs. He loves how she falls asleep when they're watching some bad movie, her head heavy against his shoulder. He loves the way she calls him when she wakes up in the morning, or sends him a text at night to wish him a good sleep. She's in his kitchen and he's looking at her from the hallway. He loves the way she fills his space. He's moving towards her and his arms are quickly around her waist. It dawns on him all at once -- the things he loves about her.

"I love you." A phrase he's said, maybe ... maybe five times in the entirety of his life. The thundering beat of his heart is so loud in his ears, he swears that she must be able to hear it. He doesn't need her to say it back, but he wants her to know. He wants to say it out loud because ... well, because that makes it real. Saying it feels contrary to everything he's believed about those words. They don't make him weak, nor do they make the walls come crumbling down around them. There's a strength in admitting it, in feeling it. He'll thank her later, for easing him into that feeling so well.

For a while, this high feels so good without anything else to blur those colored lines. It feels good to wake up in the morning, knowing there was a text waiting for him, several calls throughout the day, or better yet when their schedules weren't being assholes, days and nights spend on end together. Airport goodbyes are the worst, and he never thought he'd be one for that sappy bullshit. She's off, back to Ireland and he's holding her tightly on the street and kissing her until the last possible second. Probably, someone's snapped a picture or at least rolled their eyes at the random people and their PDA. He kisses her one last time and promises that he'll come as soon as picture wraps. She disappears behind glass doors and he feels like his heart is literally aching a little. How dramatic.

It's a buddy's birthday and they're out into the wee hours of the night. He's been chastised about five times by now for being on his phone, until finally one of his friends snatches his phone and pockets it. "You'll get it back when we get in the car." He says with a laugh as he passes off the rolled up dollar bill. He doesn't remember the last time he's done a line, but he doesn't hesitate -- it's habit, and they're celebrating. Hours later, his phone is forgotten in the high of cocaine, laughter that feels like it won't end and a damn good mood that will only crash in a couple more hours.

In the morning, he'll realize he's lost time and missed several texts from her. He'll feel bad about it, but make it up to her without telling her the why of it all. "Shit baby, I'm sorry. My phone died." It's the first time he's flat out lied to her, but he justifies it. Best not to worry her.

He smiles because she's so apologetic. He just shrugs like it doesn't matter one bit, but truthfully there's a bit of a nagging at the back of his mind. So meeting her family didn't go exactly as planned, but he had never made any promises that he was good with families. In fact, he was pretty terrible with them because he didn't know what a normal family looked like. Normal, even in the relative sense that anyone in this world was normal. Her family was perfectly lovely, her parents in particular, but well, there was a certain level of push he could take from certain siblings, one in particular.

They're back at her place and he tells her again that it's no big deal, not to worry about it. He doesn't tell her that Charles caught him alone at one point and pointedly told Brandon that he didn't like or trust him. To his credit, Brandon just gave his best eat-shit smile and said that he didn't give a shit what Charles thought of him. The only person whose opinion mattered to him was Bea's. Not the thing her brother wanted to hear, to be sure, and set a certain mood of glowering throughout the night.

He assumes she can sense his discomfort and he does wish that it were easier to actually talk about shit like that. She's always so good at reading him though, so he wants to shake it off. It doesn't matter, after all. He'd said as much. He wraps her up in his arms and doesn't let go, catching her eyes with an easy smile that's become a whole lot easier with how close she is now. "Hey. Your family is great." He cocks his head to the side at her look. "Most of your family is great." As soon as he sees that smile, he kisses her. He figures hey, they'll all have to get used to him eventually.

When she poses the question to him, he snaps. It's not even something he thinks about, his reaction is just so sudden, so sharp. A "no" so strong that he sees her flinch. He hates himself for scaring her, even in that moment. "No," He says again, softer, coaxing her towards him so he can kiss her cheek. "You shouldn't. You're perfect."

The imagery her simple question puts in his mind is the most terrifying thing he could imagine. Maybe that first high would be scary, and she'd never want to do it again. Bad trips happened all the time. But worse, the image of her sinking into that first high, maybe deliciously enjoying the warmth that floods over the body when it hits the bloodstream ... it makes his own run cold. She's too good for that. She's too good for him. It's not the first time he's thought that, and it won't be the last.

He doesn't get high for three months after that. He's too scared to.

He's not big on romantic gestures, not because he doesn't get that they mean something, but rather because he's never had much of a reason to before. He knows how hard she's been working, and he just wants to do something nice for her. Plus, he feels kind of like an idiot just sitting around watching her work or hanging around the city waiting for her to come home. He likes being active, likes working and keeping himself busy.

He's in her place so he doesn't want to mess anything up. He asked for some help with a few things he grabbed at the store, but overall thinks he's got this down. By the time she comes home, he's cooked a full dinner and has wine chilling. The surprise though, is the living room where he's hung sheets and strung lights up like it's christmas ... though it's the middle of the summer and it's more for the illusion of an indoor fort. A ton of pillows are piled high inside and he looks at her like a kid who is so damn proud of the stick figure drawing he's done. "I wanted to do something special, even if it's lame." He downplays it, but her reaction is all he could hope for. It's an anniversary of eight months. He's never had any reason to remember some month-milestone before, much less try and make it special.

It's his fault and he knows it. He doesn't make excuses. He doesn't try and blame anyone else. The fault is in his own hands. She asked him, point blank, if he would stop. He fires back that of course she knows what he's doing and the implication must be there that she thinks he'd be unfaithful to her. Other women in his past, maybe. Never her. "It's not that big of a deal." He snaps, but he knows that's not true. It would be easier to have a real argument if he was sober.

"Just lay off for tonight, will you?" In the morning they can have this conversation. In the morning, he can promise her the world and honestly, genuinely mean it. Until the next time, anyway.

It never occurs to him that she's actually done. It doesn't occur to him that her ultimatum is real and all he has to do is let go of the shit that ruins his life to hold onto the person who has made it so much better. She's collecting her things and he's indignant about it. She's not actually going to leave him. He asks her to stay, and she ignores him. He doesn't want to beg. Some prideful part of his mind won't allow it, but the more she ignores his asking, the more it sounds distinctly like begging. "Baby please, c'mon."

She's gone before he knows what happens. He becomes that guy who calls her again and again. Texts. A sober version of him will know how pathetic it is, but all he can think of now is that he can't lose her. He can't. He can't. He has. He just doesn't know that it's real yet.

He shouldn't have called her and he knows this, but he's sitting there anyway. Misery loves company, that was the saying, wasn't it? Her hands are on him and he feels sick about it. Somewhere in his mind he knows he's wrong, but it's been weeks. He's that particular mixture of hurt and angry where it feels like anything he does now doesn't matter. He isn't wallowing, he isn't pouting ... but he doesn't want to feel it anymore. She drops tablets on his tongue and makes some lewd comment that makes him smile -- but there's no warmth behind it. She's a stand in, a kind of buffer between to make him feel better.

She's in his lap moments later as this high hits him and washes over him like warm sunshine. He could be asked to do anything at this point and his answer would be a lazy smile and an affirmative. Part of him is still fighting, and he wants more to dull it out, get rid of it. "Just let it take over, baby." She coos at him in a voice that's too grating, too loud, but he nods. The weight of her in his lap is different. Her mouth is aggressive and not in a way that he likes. He's fucking her later and he feels a swell of hatred in him that he ignores as best as he can. He hates this life he's created for himself. He hates this pattern. He hates that he's chosen to be this man, instead of the one that could actually take care of something as precious as the relationship he'd had with who, he knows even in the haze of drugs, is the love of his life. He hates himself, but he could never hate her. She's better off, he thinks more than once. Everything is hollow.