Saved By Steven (the first story)

11. Thin Ice

The world was muffled. Lauren walked like she wasn't part of it, like her body belonged to someone else and she was just watching. The cold gnawed at her cheeks, seeped through her borrowed clothes, but she barely felt it. The snow underfoot crunched with every step, sharp and hollow, like distant static in her ears.

Streetlights cast yellow halos across the sidewalk. They looked like they were floating. Her hands were shoved deep into her jacket pockets. One clutched the crumpled cash Joe had given her, the other gripped her phone like a lifeline. Or a weapon.

She didn't know how long she'd been walking. Five minutes? Ten? Time folded in on itself when her head felt like this—foggy, unbothered, weightless and drowning all at once. She passed the corner deli. The gas station was two blocks ahead.
This is just a walk. Just air. Just cigarettes.
But that was a lie.
She knew it.

Her body knew it.
You don't have to feel it if you don't stop walking.
You don't have to feel anything.
She focused on her footsteps, counting them.
Eighty-seven.
Eighty-eight.
Eighty-nine.

The gas station looked like it had been dropped from space—bright, sterile, humming under flickering fluorescent lights. Lauren squinted against it as she pushed through the door. The cashier didn't even glance up.

She grabbed two packs of smokes—Joe's brand, and hers—and dropped a few crumpled bills on the counter. No words were exchanged. No names. Just the beep of the register and the hollow thump of a plastic bag sliding her way.

Outside, the cold wrapped around her again. She lit a cigarette, holding it like a lifeline, like maybe she could inhale stillness and exhale the noise.

Behind the building, a car idled near the dumpsters. Her dealer didn't say anything—he rarely did. Just rolled down the window, took her money, and handed her a small, inconspicuous pouch.
Lauren's hands were already shaking.
"Rough night?" he asked, voice low and dry.

She didn't answer. Just slipped a small vial from the pouch and took a hit. Liquid fire burned through her bloodstream. Her heart jolted, then steadied. The world slowed to a manageable hum.

Better.
Not good. But better.

When she returned to the house, the warmth hit her like a wall. Her face was flushed, fingertips tingling. She dropped the remains of her cigarette on the porch and stepped inside, greeted by the low murmur of guitars and half-eaten takeout

The living room was cluttered with movement—Brad was flipping through vinyls, Joey and Tom were laughing over something on someone's phone, Mick paced the far end with a cell to his ear, voice hushed and tense. Joe sat in a worn armchair, strumming lazy chords. Steven was on the couch, staring absently at the TV, not really watching.

Lauren walked in like a ghost.
She tossed Joe his cigarettes without a word.
"Here you go." Her voice felt thick in her throat.

Joe caught the pack and gave her a small nod. "Thanks." He lit one without asking more.
Lauren peeled off her coat and scarf. The room spun briefly. She dropped her bag beside the couch and pulled out her old iPod. The earbuds tangled, her fingers fumbling as she sorted them out. Her muscles felt like they were wrapped in cotton.

She curled under the blanket, breath shallow, and hit play. Music flooded her ears like water—warm, deafening, welcome.Please don't talk to me. I just want to float.
A dip in the couch. A shift in weight beside her.
"Lauren?" Mick's voice.
She made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"You want something to drink?"
Another hum.
"Go away, please."
"Okay." He left. She didn't open her eyes.

A new song started. Something slower. Her heart beat in strange sync with it. The couch shifted again. Please not Mick again.
"Hey, honey."
Steven.
His voice was gentler than it had any right to be.
"You okay?"
"Hmmm..."

Steven leaned closer, concern pressing at the edge of his voice.
"Can you open your eyes for me?"
She turned her head lazily, lids heavy. "Why?"
He exhaled slowly. "Fuck. You're really out of it."
"So?"
Steven hesitated, then said quietly, "I'll get you some water."

Lauren rolled onto her side, letting the music drag her down again.
She didn't know how long passed before the blanket lifted and someone sat beside her again. A hand touched her arm—gentle. A whisper followed. She peeled her eyes open just enough to see Steven holding out a water bottle.
"Here," he said softly.
Lauren tried to sit up, but her balance vanished, and she collapsed into him.
"Whoa—hey, you okay?"
"Dizzy," she muttered.
"Just stay here. Sip some water."

She drank a few sips—awkward, slow—then let the bottle fall to the floor as her head lolled back onto the pillow. Sleep dragged her under like a riptide.
Steven stared at her for a long time. Her face was too pale, her eyes too unfocused. He reached down and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. Then he stood, crossed the room, and found Joe still plucking quiet notes on his guitar.
Joe looked up.
"You knew?" Steven asked, voice low.
Joe nodded. "Figured it out the second she walked in."
Steven's jaw tightened. "She's using."
"Yeah."
"What are we supposed to do?"
Joe's fingers stilled on the strings. He looked toward the couch, then back at Steven.
"We don't lie to ourselves," he said. "That's step one."
Steven rubbed the back of his neck. "I want to help her."
"I know." Joe set the guitar aside. "But don't forget to help yourself, too."
Steven didn't answer. 

Across the room, Lauren was barely breathing beneath the blanket. Her chest rose, then stilled for a few seconds before rising again. Her lips were parted, and one earbud had slipped out, dangling by a thread.

Steven moved to the edge of the room, out of Joe's line of sight, out of Lauren's. He leaned against the door frame that led to the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes pinned to the floor.
She's not okay.
She's not mine to save.
I want to anyway.

The front door opened with a gust of wind and Mick came back in, snapping his phone shut.
"Everything alright?" he asked, brushing snow from his coat like he was already expecting the answer to be no.

Steven didn't reply. Mick followed his line of sight, to the couch, to Lauren.
"She asleep?" Mick asked.
"Yeah. If you can call it that."
Mick's jaw flexed. He walked toward the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. "What happened?
"She went out to get 'smokes.' Came back strung out. Barely able to sit up."
Mick took a long swig. "Figured that might happen."
Steven looked over, sharp. "You figured?"
"She was twitchy as hell earlier. Couldn't sit still, couldn't focus. She looked at the front door like it was a parachute." He leaned on the counter. "You've seen it before, haven't you?"
"Yeah. Doesn't mean it's easy."
"No, it never is." Mick paused. "But you're not doing her any favors by pretending she's not using."
Steven exhaled through his nose, hard. "I'm not pretending. I'm just... trying to be decent."
Mick raised an eyebrow. "And how's that going?"
Steven didn't answer.
"Look," Mick said, "I've been where she is. Hell, I've dragged people out of worse. Sometimes they're grateful. Sometimes they hate you for it. And sometimes..." He shrugged. "Sometimes They die anyway."
Steven's eyes closed briefly, like he was trying to shut out the thought before it could take root.
"I'm not saying you walk away," Mick added. "I'm saying don't walk in blind."

There was a long silence between them. The music in the living room had faded into a background hum—Joe noodling something minor and moody on his guitar.

"She trusts you, y'know," Mick said, tilting his chin toward the couch. "Or she wouldn't let herself crash like that."
Steven looked up, weary. "Trust's a weird word."
"True," Mick said. "But it still counts for something."

Back in the living room, Joe's playing stopped. He stood, walked toward the window, and pulled back the curtain just enough to see the street. Snow was starting to fall again—light, quiet.
"Storm's coming," he muttered.
Steven came back into the room and lowered himself into the armchair nearest the couch, his eyes on Lauren's still form. Her face had softened in sleep, but not in peace. She looked like someone running—just in slow motion.

"She said she'd be back in ten minutes," Joe said, eyes still on the snow.
Steven responded without looking up.
"She came back in nine. Like it made her okay."
Joe let the curtain fall. "We're gonna need to decide what this is."
"What do you mean?"
Joe turned around. "Is this a pit stop for her, or is this the place she breaks down and starts over?"
Steven's throat tightened. He had no idea how to answer that.

Joe read the silence for what it was and softened his voice.
"You don't have to fix her. You just gotta figure out if you're gonna be there when she tries to fix herself."And across the room, Lauren stirred.Not awake.Not yet.But something—somewhere—beneath the haze and chemicals and static, was shifting.The first tremor of something old cracking open.The beginning of an end.Or the start of a beginning.