Saved By Steven (the first story)

14. Joe

The smell of coffee and toast drifted through the room before the sounds did, silverware clinking, chairs scraping the floor, murmurs of half-awake conversation. Lauren kept her eyes closed. Talking meant remembering, and remembering still felt dangerous. Eventually, the ache in her limbs forced her to stir. Her body was already craving its next fix.

"Morning," Mick called, his voice cautious but kind. He poured her a cappuccino and held it out as she appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Lauren said nothing. She took the cup silently, her fingers brushing his, then turned and walked away, retreating back upstairs.

"Yikes. She's in one of those moods," Brad said.
"Better steer clear," Tom added. "She might blow today."
"I'll go check on her," Steven said, rising from the table and following her quietly.
"I'll bring her bag," Joe said, grabbing it from the hallway. "She'll want her things."
Joey's gaze narrowed. "Don't enable her, Joe. I mean it."
Joe paused at the foot of the stairs. "I'm just helping."
Joey didn't respond. But his expression said everything.
He didn't trust Joe. And with reason. Because sometimes, when Joe offered help, he was really searching for control. He didn't always know where the line was—especially when he was craving something himself.

Upstairs, Lauren moved like a ghost. She found a toothbrush in the bathroom with a note attached.

For you.
Fresh clothes on the bed in the next room.
—Mick

It hit her harder than expected—how kind the gesture was, how undeserved it felt. When she stepped into the hallway, she nearly bumped into Steven.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said gently.
Lauren didn't answer. She glanced between him and Joe, who now held her bag.
"Figured you'd want your stuff while you freshened up," Joe said, holding it out.
Lauren took it, nodding faintly. Steven tried a few more quiet questions, but when she wouldn't respond, he backed off and headed downstairs.

Only Joe lingered.
Lauren stepped into the room where a small selection of women's clothes had been laid neatly across the bed: jeans, a tank top, sweater, shoes, even clean underwear. She eyed them for a long moment before dropping her bag on the floor.

The sweater she'd slept in, clung to her like a second skin. She wanted out of it—but first, she needed something else. Her hands fumbled through the bag. 

The bottle.
The needle.
She tried to draw the liquid, but her fingers shook too much.
The plunger wouldn't budge.

"Let me help." Joe said from behind.
Startled, Lauren nearly dropped the vial.
Joe stepped closer and took it from her hands. "Here," he said, drawing the fluid with practiced ease. "This enough?"

She nodded.
She barely felt the prick. Just the warmth—slow, creeping relief that numbed the panic under her skin. Her head dropped slightly. Her body melted into the edge of the bed.

Joe stayed close.

"You okay, baby?"
She didn't answer.
"You know," he said after a pause, "seeing you like this... it makes me feel a little less wrecked."

Joe sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. His jaw was tight. "My wife left me six months ago. Cold. Just gone. Nineteen years down the drain. I still smell her perfume sometimes and wanna crawl out of my skin."
Lauren blinked slowly.
"She took the kids. Said I was too checked out. Too unpredictable." He laughed, bitterly. "She wasn't wrong."
He touched her shoulder. She didn't pull away.
"I haven't touched anyone in so long," he said, voice quieter. "You—" he stopped, searching her expression, "—you get it. You know what drowning feels like."

Lauren didn't answer. Her body was still. Her mind barely there.
Joe leaned in, kissed her cheek, then her neck.
She flinched. But didn't speak.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he whispered. "I just... don't want to feel alone anymore."
He moved over her, and this time, Lauren let out a weak sound of protest. But her body didn't resist. The drugs had dulled everything—fear, judgment, willpower.
He pushed her back gently, lips moving along her collarbone.
She barely heard him say it:"If you're quiet, It won't hurt."

Her heart lurched. Her mouth opened. But no words came.When he entered her, she froze. Stared at the ceiling. Her limbs felt like lead. His body over hers was heat and weight and shame.Was this consent?Was this happening?Her voice cracked when the pain started. She began to cry, softly at first—then louder."Stop," she gasped.Joe didn't.
The sound of footsteps exploded from downstairs.Lauren blinked. Her lips parted. But no words came.

Footsteps thundered. Doors burst open. Mick and Steven tore into the room.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mick bellowed.Steven pulled Joe off Lauren, throwing him across the room.
Lauren curled into herself, clutching the blanket, sobbing and shaking violently.
"I told you not to enable her!" Joey yelled, storming in behind them.
She didn't say no!" Joe shouted. "She just—she didn't stop me! She looked at me like she wanted it!"
Steven shoved him back. "You don't get to decide that, Joe! She was high out of her mind! Look at her!"
Joe looked at the small figure trembling on the bed, eyes red, lips trembling. His face twisted,
first in anger, then confusion. He looked like he wanted to justify it again—but couldn't find the
words.
"Whatever," he muttered. "You always want to save them, Steven. I just wanted to feel something."
And then he stormed out.
Steven turned to the bed, to the trembling girl wrapped in sheets.
Mick moved slowly, his hands up, his voice soft. "You okay now?"
Lauren couldn't speak. She just shook her head and reached for him. Mick gathered her gently in his arms, holding her as she sobbed into his chest.
"Let's get you dressed," he whispered. "Then we'll talk. I promise. You're not alone."
Lauren nodded against him, small and broken, letting him guide her.
Steven stayed at the doorway, his eyes on the hall.
"The bastard," he whispered. And then he was gone, chasing after the friend who had just crossed the line for the last time.