It started as a solution.

  That was how Samantha framed it, and how Michael learned to accept it—something practical, manageable, almost responsible. A way to soften the edges without falling apart entirely.

  "Just to take the pressure off," she said, handing him the joint as though it were no more dangerous than aspirin. "You don't need to suffer to prove something."

  He hadn't argued.

  The first time, it quieted the noise enough that his shoulders dropped without him noticing. The city blurred at the edges, its sharpness dulled to something tolerable. He slept four hours that night. Then five.

  For a while, it felt like progress.

  He didn't smoke before service. Didn't smoke around staff. He told himself that mattered.

  He told himself control was still intact.

  Whitby became the counterweight.

  When he travelled north, he didn't bring anything with him. Didn't need to. The sea air did the work. The oven's heat grounded him. Willow's presence steadied something inside him without asking him to name it.

  She noticed the difference anyway.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "You're quieter," she said one evening, leaning against the bar while he ate slowly. "Not bad-quiet. Just… elsewhere."

  He smiled faintly. "Work."

  She nodded, accepting the half-truth for what it was.

  But sometimes, when he stayed too long, the absence of the drug made his hands restless. His thoughts skittered. Sleep came harder.

  He hated that.

  Hated that relief now had conditions.

  Back in London, the habit settled in like a routine. Smoke before bed. Smoke before meetings he didn't want to attend. Smoke when Samantha said things that twisted something old and sore inside him.

  "You're doing so well," she told him one night, tracing a finger along his jaw. "I don't know how you manage it all."

  He didn't know either.

  Because part of him still believed that if he just worked harder, stayed calmer, proved himself enough—everything would stop hurting.

  Whitby, by contrast, asked nothing of him.

  On a cold evening, Michael stood outside Field of Waves after closing, breath fogging in the air. Willow locked the door behind them, keys jingling softly.

  "You're leaving tomorrow," she said.

  "Yes."

  She hesitated. Then, "You could stay."

  The words were gentle. Not a plea.

  He shook his head. "I can't."

  She didn't ask why.

  They stood there together, the sea roaring approval and warning in equal measure.

  That night, in London, the joint burned faster than usual.

  And Michael realised, dimly, that relief was no longer relief if he couldn't choose when to let it go.

  Willow's Diary

  Something has found its way into him.

  I don't know what it is yet, but I can feel the distance it creates—

  like fog between two shores.

  I won't chase him through it.

  I'll keep the light on instead.

  Poem — Soft Edges

  Smoke makes everything gentle—

  until it doesn't.

  If you need something to soften the night,

  I wish you'd come here.

  I would sit with you

  until morning.