Disclaimer I don't own any of the CSI Miami charters and do not make any money off them

Author's note: I know my writing isn't the best, so please don't leave any comments about how bad it is.

The night was cold, feeling like rain, but there was no rain. Rick Stelter had just been dropped off at a random street corner with only a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and $50. He pulled his jacket tightly around him, walking aimlessly to stay warm, not paying attention to where he was going. Lost in thought, he knew he should stop somewhere to eat, but he wasn't really hungry.

When Rick finally looked around, he couldn't believe that he had let his mind wander so much that he now stood in front of this house with the familiar car in the driveway. He now wanted to be anywhere else. A light in the living room turned on, and he knew it was too late, but he turned to leave. A voice called out into the night:

"Stetler, stay where you are!"

Rick did the most unexpected thing. He dropped to his knees, with his arms out, back arched, and head lowered in complete submission. The person cautiously walked in front of him and observed the behavior.

"Why are you here?

Rick looked up into those hazel eyes and wondered if he could see right through his soul.

"I was just wanting someone to talk to who understood what it feels like to go through an addiction."

"You know you're supposed to be in prison, right?"

"Go ahead, Wolfe, call it in."

Wolfe grabbed his phone and called the dispatcher while Rick hung his head back down.

"Need to report a sighting of Rick Stelter." "What do you mean he was released?" "When was he released?" "No"

Wolfe hung up his phone and put it in his pocket.

"You know you could have said something."

"Would you have believed me?"

"No" "You said you wanted to talk about addiction. What is your addiction?"

"Alcoholism"

"Come on inside. It's freezing out here, and I don't want to be outside anymore."

They both went inside. Stetler, being aware of Wolfe's OCD, took his shoes off at the door and put them on the shoe rack. He took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. For the first time, Ryan saw him wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt. He couldn't help but notice all the scars on his forearms. He gestured to the couch, and he sat in a lazy-boy chair facing him.

"What is it that makes you want to drink so much?"

"Which time? The first time or the second time after I relapsed?" "And now trying to avoid another relapse."

"How about when you relapsed?"

"I had just lost my husband in the line of duty, and I know that I was not very popular in the office, but I thought at least one person would have said something to me. But I sat on those steps until late into the night, and not one person stopped to make sure I was okay. I tried to call my sponsor, but he had also relapsed. Turning to the one thing I knew, I went to the bar and kicked back a few. I was trying to numb the pain away.

"I'm sorry, did you just say 'husband'? How did you guys meet? I have so many questions."

"What? You want me to tell you how it all started?"