The party rages downstairs, but I'm moving against the current, climbing the stairs with a sense of urgency I can barely contain. Eliot's not himself lately—his jokes have turned cruel, his eyes hollow. Something's badly wrong, and no one else seems willing to acknowledge it.

I reach his door, the muffled sound of somber music leaking through the cracks. My hand hovers over the doorknob for a moment before I push it open, unprepared for what I'll find.

The room is destroyed. A shattered mirror, overturned furniture, a hole punched in the wall. And there, on a mattress pulled onto the floor, sits Eliot in his maroon silk robe. His hair is disheveled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. My blood runs cold as I watch him press a lighter flame against his palm, his face empty of all expression.

"Do you ever knock?" he mutters without looking up, smoke curling from his nostrils.

Adrenaline surges through me. I cross the room in three strides, yanking the lighter from his hand and tossing it across the room. My heart pounds as I stare at the fresh burn mark on his palm, then notice similar scars crisscrossing his arms and stomach. He's been doing this to himself for weeks.

We stand frozen in silence for what feels like an eternity before he rises unsteadily to his feet. The smell of alcohol rolls off him in waves. He crosses to shut the door, then disappears into the bathroom, violent retching echoing from behind the closed door.

I move on autopilot, finding a first aid kit and cleaning up the worst of the mess while he's sick. When he emerges, pale and unsteady, his robe falls open, revealing more scars—and something in me breaks. This isn't the Eliot I know, the composed, confident man who always has everything under control.

"Are you here to blow me?" he slurs, his voice icy. "Because if not, get the fuck out."

I should leave. I should respect his wishes and pretend I never saw any of this. But I can't. Not when he's hurting this badly.

"No," I say firmly, surprised by my own resolve. "We need to talk."

Before I can react, he moves with startling speed, pushing me onto the bed and straddling my hips. His face is inches from mine, eyes blazing with a dangerous mix of pain and challenge. The scent of alcohol mingles with his cologne, creating a heady combination that makes my pulse race despite everything.

"Eliot," I begin, but my words are cut off as he leans down, his stubble scraping my jaw before he whispers in my ear, "I just want you to care about fucking me."

The air crackles between us, desire and desperation and fear all tangled together. I can feel his body pressed against mine, the heat of him even through our clothes. For a moment, I'm torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, between doing what's right and giving in to what we've both denied for so long.