Roy Walker didn't quite know how his life was gonna turn out. He didn't know what was going to happen from here on out. He didn't know who would stand next to him.

When he was 6 he wanted to be a fireman.

When he was 16 he got his first job behind the desk at a hotel.

At 24 he could've done what was asked of him.

But he chose not to.

He didn't envision his 26 year old self the way he was now. Not one bit. If this was twenty years before, he could've well envisioned himself on a fire truck now. Ten years, still living at home, barely making pay at the hotel, making people happy. Two years, well, if he had stayed, he would've been  still been making people happy. Everyone but himself. And it would have been absolutely toxic.

Sometimes you need to make yourself happy first. And Roy did that. But it didn't quite turn out how he wanted it to when he did.

Two years after moving to Los Angeles, Roy was now paralyzed because of his decisions he thought would make him happy. He couldn't change his injury, what's done was done.

Roy didn't envision his 26 year old self this way.

Besides some control over his hips, no movement or sensation had come back. Besides sitting up straight without getting dizzy, positioning himself a certain way to stand up would be the closest thing he'd get to walking. Even then, getting his knees to lock was some sort of a miracle. Roy didn't believe in miracles though. This was a trick of the mind, something to do with practice.

So why was he doing this now?

Why, at three in the morning, was Roy Walker tricking his paralyzed legs into believing they could hold his weight to stand, to stand in the door of the house of a woman who once lifted him into his hospital bed when he attempted to do just that?

To prove something?

She had once walked in on him drunk with a shattered ashtray stuck into his thighs. She had brought him to a bar and gave him clean clothes, threw his body over her shoulders effortlessly several times, and fucked him in his bed. She assured him that leg spasms were normal, and sex couldn't cure paraplegia. She knew what she wanted, she knew who she wanted. She cared for the sick, cared for the injured, and she could destroy a person by simply walking into a room. Simply by walking into a life. And he had only known her for a short time.

And he was in love. He was in love with someone else before. Dear Alice. A brunette who looked nothing like her sister. Half sister. He was in love. But Alice was only pretending to love him. And he wished he knew that before he jumped.

Fell.

She made him happy at first. They were happy. But he wasn't satisfied. Dead end jobs and no fame in sight. Still a wannabe. Still longing for that rush. To thrive, to live. To jump, crash, and burn. For art, for fame, for money, for the hell of it. To do something the other actors were too much of a pussy to do. To be the greatest. To win.

To prove something?

Sinclair was everything he could never be. And richer, and famous.

And MacKenzie was aware. She knew. And did not tell.

So Roy stood here now, staring into her eyes. His mind was a tunnel of everything in the past two years; Whit's seemingly borderline disdain for his brother. Was he angry for what he did or for his disability? Dahlia's decisions and her infatuation with him that came almost suddenly overnight. That scumbag William who deserved to rot in hell. Doctor Lockhart who was probably still looking for the suicidal paraplegic who jailbroke out of his hospital with his brave wife.

Dahlia was a distraction, yes, another way to pass the time. And the guilt consumed Roy.

MacKenzie stared back, the expression on her pale face obviously in puzzlement. Roy knew he had woken her up from a deep sleep. She probably could have thought she was dreaming. He couldn't tell if her eyes were watering from tears or the fact that she had just woken up. She gleamed. She beamed. She was beautiful.

Roy instinctively let go of the doorframe and threw his arms around MacKenzie, nearly collapsing into her. She gripped onto him tightly, stumbling back.

"Goddammit, Roy Walker."

They fell to the floor, MacKenzie practically throwing herself on top of him. She squeezed him intensely, and immediately she kissed him harder than she ever had. Ever.

"I think I believe you now," MacKenzie said softly.

Roy felt her body, every inch of her being. Her energy pulsed through his fingers. Her tears stained his face. He felt her calfs, her thighs, her ribs, her breasts. She clung to him, she clawed him, she took his face in her hands, and slapped him.

"I fucking hate you," she frowned.

"I know," Roy said. He rubbed his cheek. He recalled Dahlia doing the same thing after he tried to overdose. He deserved it both times.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I said I'd come back."

"It's three in the morning."

"I didn't want to sleep alone."

"Cabs are around this late?"

"It seems so."

"Yeah it seems," she whispered.

MacKenzie embraced him again.

"God, I don't know whether to murder you or take you to bed with me."

"You could do both," Roy insisted.

"Dirty business," MacKenzie replied.

Roy kissed her once more, a passionate kiss, juicy like a ripened peach. MacKenzie flung her arms around Roy, and they made out for what seemed like several minutes.

Roy couldn't tell if this was happiness.