Jordan stepped into the therapy building with a sluggish drag to his movements, the fluorescent lights overhead stabbing at his eyes. Too bright. Too harsh. His head pounded with the familiar dull ache of a hangover, punishment for another night spent drowning himself in bottles that did nothing but make the mornings worse. Again. Always again. He let out a long, heavy sigh as he approached the front desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose while the woman there—Meredith, her tag read—offered him a polite smile that only deepened the shadows under his mood. She handed him his name tag, and with the weight of it clipped to his shirt, he made his way down the hall to the room where the session waited.

He stopped outside the door, the muffled hum of voices seeping through. Another sigh left him, heavier this time, chest sinking with the effort of walking into another hour of forced honesty and broken stories. Pushing the doors open, he found the circle—ten of them gathered, chairs arranged in that neat little ring of healing, or whatever the hell they liked to call it. Jordan’s gaze swept over the faces, each one carrying its own mess, its own weight. He didn’t greet anyone, never did. Just scanned until his eyes caught on the one chair that mattered. The one beside the only other person who seemed to understand.

That seat was always open, always waiting, because everyone knew it belonged to him. And they never seemed to mind.

Jordan moved without a word, sliding into the chair beside them and leaning back like he belonged there, like the space wouldn’t feel right otherwise. Across the circle, Liliana, their therapist, smiled softly and began the session. Her voice was steady, calm, the kind of gentle tone that didn’t make him bristle. She spoke to them like people, not patients—something he could respect, even if his attention wavered.

Because his focus never stayed on her for long.

Jordan’s gaze shifted, landing on them again. They were fidgeting—same as him, same as always. Rubbing their fingers together, restless, before leaning slightly closer, dropping their voice low enough to barely carry across the space between their chairs.

"Hey... you good?" they whispered, eyes sharp but soft in their own way. He already knew the answer. None of them were good. That wasn’t why they were here. But still—maybe, just maybe—their night hadn’t been as cruel as the last. Maybe, for once, their pain had eased, even if only a fraction.

And for reasons he didn’t like to think too hard about, he needed to know.