Page 115 of Vital Signs
One call. One twenty-minute visit. The crushing panic in my chest would dissolve, replaced by a floating calm that would let me think clearly, let me function, let me be useful instead of this shaking mess.
But I could see Misha's face when he found out. Not anger, but worse. I could see the quiet devastation of someone who'd trusted me with everything. His modeling photographs. His French confessions during sex. His body when it was vulnerable and open and perfectly trusting.
Christ. When had that happened? When had he become the thing I craved more than chemical peace? When had his touch started working better than any drug I'd ever found?
My nervous system had rewired itself around him without me noticing. Every comfort I used to find in substances, I now found in him. The escape, the peace, the feeling that everything would be okay.
Using wouldn't just betray our relationship. It would destroy the only high I actually wanted anymore.
"Hunter?”
I stared at Eli through the rearview mirror. "I can't handle this," I said, hating how my voice cracked on the words. "The not knowing, the waiting while he might be dying somewhere and I'm just sitting here useless."
“Yes, you can,” Eli said firmly. "You can do it for Misha. That man has brought you back from the dead, Hunter. And you've done the same for him. I've never seen Misha trust anyone like he trusts you. You want to honor that? Stay present. Be the man he chose, not the man you used to be."
Something settled in my chest. Eli was right. Misha hadn't chosen the broken-down junkie version of me. He'd chosen the man I was becoming. The man who fought through withdrawal instead of giving up. The man who chose love over escape.
I stared down at the phone in my trembling hands, Jimmy's number still glowing on the screen. One touch. That's all it would take to make this crushing anxiety disappear.
But Eli was right. I had done this. I'd chosen Misha over the needle when my body was eating itself alive. I'd stayed present through withdrawal that should have killed me.
I was stronger than the needle. But not because I'd suddenly developed superhuman willpower. Because Misha had shown me a different kind of strength. The kind that let him share those modeling photographs despite the pain they represented. The kind that let him choose justice over vengeance, healing over destruction.
He'd taught me that recovery wasn't about being strong enough to resist temptation. It was about being worthy of the life we were building together.
I was stronger than this. Had to be.
I set the phone down on my lap. My hands still shook but were no longer reaching for destruction. "What if we're too late? What if something's already happened to him?"
Eli's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Then we make whoever hurt him wish they'd never been born. But we do it together. We do it awake."
His words steadied something inside me. This was what I'd been fighting for without realizing it: people who believed I was capable of more than just surviving.
Misha's laugh. That's what I needed to hear. Not just his voice confirming he was alive, but that specific sound he made when I said something that surprised him. The way it crinkled his eyes and made his accent thicker.
Or his touch. Christ, I'd never thought skin contact could be addictive until his. The way he knew exactly how much pressure to use when he traced my scars, turning ugly history into something that felt like art.
The way he whispered my name in French during sex, like it was a prayer.
All of that was in danger. Not just Misha's life, but everything we'd become together. Every time I'd wake up to find him already watching me like I was something worth studying. Every night he'd pull me against him like he was afraid I'd disappear.
When I found him, when not if, I was going to kiss him until neither of us could breathe. Strip him down and check every inch, then show him exactly how missing him had destroyed me.
Shepherd checked his watch, the digital display casting a green light across his sharp features. "Still no contact from Team One. That's not a communication failure. That's active suppression."
"Then why are we still sitting here?" I snapped. "If they're in trouble—"
"We go now," Shepherd cut me off, already starting the engine. "River, you stay here. Passive surveillance only. Do not engage under any circumstances."
"Copy that."
Shepherd turned to face Eli and me, and his eyes held the cold focus of someone who'd made a decision that couldn't be unmade. "We're going to Wright's house. Team One is either compromised or dead. Either way, we don't leave family behind."
Family. The word hit different now. Misha wasn't just family. He was home, future, the reason recovery meant something beyond just survival. If something had happened to him, if I was too late...
No. I shut down that thought before it could take root. He was alive. He had to be, because a world without Misha in it wasn't worth staying sober for.
"The evidence—" I started.
