Addiction| 18+

13| change

Hayley — The Next Morning

I woke up with a heaviness in my chest that didn't come from tears, but from everything unsaid.

The room was too quiet. Too clean. Too unfamiliar. I lay there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what today was supposed to look like. A week ago I didn't know Grey Anderson existed. Now his house was the place I was supposed to call home.

Eventually, I forced myself out of bed and got ready. My movements felt mechanical—shower, clothes, brush hair—like my body knew what to do even if my mind didn't.

When I stepped into the hallway, the smell of coffee drifted up from downstairs. Warm, steady, almost comforting in a way I didn't want to admit. I followed the scent into the kitchen.

Grey was already there, standing by the counter with a mug in his hand. His sleeves were rolled up, dark hair slightly messy like he'd been awake for hours.

He glanced at me, but not sharply—just enough to acknowledge I walked in.

"Morning," he said quietly.

"Morning." I said keeping my gaze plastered to the floor.

He nodded toward the table. "There's food."

I murmured a small thank you and sat down. The toast and eggs sat on the plate felt too heavy in my hands. For some reason I grabbed the fork myself and tried to eat.

Grey waited until I settled before he spoke again, voice even and composed, like he'd prepared what he was about to say.

"There are a few things we need to go over."

My stomach tightened.

He must have seen the way my shoulders stiffened, because he paused and softened his tone.

"They aren't demands," he clarified. "Just... expectations. Things you should know."

Expectations.
The word felt sharp.

But I nodded.

He set his mug down and leaned back slightly in his chair, studying me in a way that wasn't invasive but was definitely thorough.

"First," he said carefully, "you'll be sleeping in the main bedroom from now on."

My breath caught.

He continued before I could say anything.

"You'll have your own space," he said. "Your own side of the bed. I'm not crossing any boundaries. This is about appearances. And practicality."

Appearances.
Marriage.
The world he lived in.

I swallowed hard. "Okay."

His eyes lingered on me for a second, unreadable.

"Second," he said, "you'll be meeting with a therapist once a week."

I blinked. "A therapist?"

"Yes." His voice was firm, not cold. "Someone private. Someone trained. Someone who can help you adjust... to all of this."

All of this.
The marriage.
The sudden change in life.
The weight I'd been carrying for years.

"I'm not forcing you," he added. "But I'm recommending it strongly."

I hesitated.
Not because I didn't need help—deep down I knew I did—but because I wasn't used to anyone arranging help for me. Nobody had ever stepped in. Nobody had ever insisted I talk to someone.

I nodded slowly. "Alright."

He exhaled, just barely. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was relieved.