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𝐈𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥.

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕—𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔. 𝑯𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 ~ ᴶᵉᵃˡᵒᵘˢʸ, ʰᵘʳᵗ, ʰᵉᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵃʳᵍᵘᵐᵉⁿᵗ, ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ, ˢᵒᶠᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᶠᵉˢˢⁱᵒⁿ

•

The bar had the same scent it always did — old wood, cheap whiskey, faint cigarette smoke clinging to the walls no matter how many times they painted over it.

You liked this place. It had a certain hum to it. The kind that made people loosen up. Laugh too loud. Tell stories that weren’t entirely true.

Tonight, it was just you, Hank, and Buster — the usual trio, sharing a booth in the corner like always. Buster had launched into some dramatic retelling of a botched sting operation, arms flying, voice rising with each exaggerated twist.

— and you were laughing. That easy kind of laughter that made your shoulders relax and your voice ring out across the table.

But across the table, Hank barely touched his drink.

He was quiet.

Quieter than usual.

You didn’t notice it at first. Not until the third or fourth time you leaned toward Buster to swat at one of his jokes, only to glance at Hank and find him watching.

Not smiling. Not annoyed.

Just… tight. Still.

His fingers were curled loosely around his glass, but he hadn’t taken a sip in a while. His jaw was tense, like he was grinding back something he didn’t want to say. His eyes — dark, unreadable — flickered between you and Buster with something almost guarded. his gaze hovered on you for a second too long before flicking away again like it burned to look.

And for a second, you meant to ask if he was okay.

But Buster cut in again, halfway through another story, waving his hands dramatically as he leaned across the table and launched into the next ridiculous part of his rambling saga.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒖𝒚,” he was saying, eyes bright with mischief, “𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒈𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚—”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Not because the story was particularly good, but because Buster had a way of delivering even the stupidest line with such conviction that you couldn’t help it.

And in that second, you missed the way Hank’s eyes dropped.

It was subtle.

A tightness in Hank’s jaw. A sudden flick of his eyes toward the door. The way his fingers went still around the glass, not tapping anymore, just clenched.

And in that split second — lost in the humor, the hum of the bar, the warmth of a familiar night — you didn’t see Hank stand.

You only heard the chair legs scrape back.

“𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒊𝒓.”

The words were flat. Dull. Like he wasn’t really talking to either of you.

No explanation. No glance back.

Just the scrape of his boots across the floor and the hush of the bar door swinging closed behind him.

You and Buster both watched the door swing closed behind him.

The moment hung in the booth like smoke.

Your brow furrowed as Buster leaned back, eyebrows raised.

“𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍?”he muttered, reaching for his drink. “𝑮𝒖𝒚’𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes lingered on the door, heart skipping in that way it only did when something felt off. You replayed the last few minutes in your head — the shift in his expression, the tight grip on the glass, the way he hadn’t looked at you when he left.

“𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕,” you murmured.

Buster scoffed. “𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒂𝒚. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌 — 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆.”

You shot him a look.

“𝑨𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕,” he added with a half-grin. “𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒔.”

You pushed back from the table, sliding out of the booth.

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒈𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

“𝑭𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅,” Buster said, picking up your drink and draining what was left. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 ‘𝒉𝒊,’ 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒄 — 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.”

You didn’t reply. You were already moving.

Because the way Hank had left — quiet, clipped, not even glancing back — it wasn’t just him being tired or needing air.

It felt like something deeper.

Something sharp.

The air outside was cool. Crisp. It bit at your skin, sharp against the heat of the bar’s glow.

And as you stepped out into the night and spotted him at the edge of the parking lot, standing alone beneath the dull glow of the bar’s neon, you felt it in your chest like a weight.

This wasn’t just a mood.

This was 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

And you were about to find out why.

You approached him slowly.

He stood, the wind tugging at the helm of his jacket , his hands buried in the pockets, shoulders drawn up against the cold, stiff - like he was holding something in so tight it might break his ribs. The air was sharp, laced with the distant scent of gasoline and earth, and the hum of the neon sign buzzed faintly above you like static tension.

You stopped a few steps from him, not saying anything at first.

You didn’t want to startle him.

Didn’t want to push him either.

“𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌?” you said softly. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚?”

He doesn’t turn. No response.

You stepped closer. “𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌—”

“𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆?” he muttered. It was low , barely above a whisper , but you could still hear the bitterness. Not like him. He never spoke to you in such a way.

You blink. “𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?”

This time, he turns.

And the look in his eyes makes your breath hitch — something cold and sharp and 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 simmering just beneath the surface.

Then he says it. Quiet. Clipped.

“𝑾𝒉𝒚’𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?”

It lands like a slap. Not loud — just 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. Measured like he wanted it to hurt. Like he chose those words on purpose.

You blink, taken aback. “𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?”

He lets out a humorless breath. Not quite a laugh — more like a release of pressure he’s been holding all night.

And then he gestures.

Subtle. A shift of his head. A glance back toward the bar, toward the window where the yellow haze still glows behind the glass. His eyes flick back to yours, but not before you catch the way his jaw clenches — the barest, smallest motion of his fingers twitching at his side.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

You blink. Eyebrows furrowing as you tilted your head to the side like a lost puppy “𝑨𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒐?”

He tilts his head, just slightly — a non-answer that says everything.

𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔—𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕? 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

“𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈,” he bites out. “𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆. 𝑫𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

That one hits.

Your arms fold defensively. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.”

“𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅, 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅?”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You feel a flare of disbelief, and then the sting of something deep inside. He’s not saying it outright, but the meaning is there — thick in the space between you.

There’s a meanness in him tonight you’ve never seen before. A bitterness curling around every word, like it’s been fermenting in his chest for weeks and finally found a crack to escape through.

You try to stay calm. Try to read past the sharpness to what’s 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 going on underneath.

But he doesn’t stop.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒊𝒕?” he asks, voice low and tight. “𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏, 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆? 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

You’re stunned.

The words hit you like a punch in the gut, unexpected and cold. They hang in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken.

You blink, your chest tightening as you try to make sense of what just came out of his mouth.

“𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒎.” The words come out softer than you meant, as though you’re trying to make it clear that there was nothing behind it — but his accusation burns in the air, leaving you feeling raw.

He tilts his head slightly, the edge in his voice sharpening. “𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒉? 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, you feel it.

Your stomach drops.

The casual cruelty in his tone makes your chest tighten. You know he doesn’t mean it, not in the way it sounds, but the hurt still cuts through you like a knife. You swallow, a bitter taste rising in your throat, and try to keep your composure. But it’s hard.

The weight of what he just said settles in your chest. It’s not the accusation that stings most — it’s the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s watching you with an intensity that feels more like a 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 than a question.

You see the brief flicker of regret in his eyes as soon as the words escape his mouth. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His eyes dart away, as if he wants to take the words back but can’t. The tightness in his jaw betrays the sudden 𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲— like he didn’t know it would hurt you this much.

He runs a hand through his hair, the frustration clear, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

Because it landed.

It landed hard.

The silence between you two is thick, suffocating, as the weight of his words sits between you. You feel every second of it — the space between you widening.

You want to say something, to defend yourself, but instead, you find yourself shrinking under the weight of it. His words cut deeper than you want to admit.

You take a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady your nerves. All of a sudden like a switch being turned on, the anger started to well up inside of you and you couldn’t hold back anymore. your voice sharpens — a defense, but also a truth that needs to be said.

“𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏,” you snap, your words a little more cutting than you intended. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆?”

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, as though he wasn’t expecting you to fire back like that. The regret flashes in his eyes, but it doesn’t stop you. It’s not enough this time.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔, 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌,” you continue, your voice still rough, still raw. “𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆.”

His face falters at your words, but you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔. 𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰’𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆.”

You don’t wait for his reaction.

You turn on your heel, boots striking the gravel with force as you make your way back toward the bar. The heat is rising up your neck, twisting with the cold in the air — your chest aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say, and everything he said too damn easily.

You shove the door open harder than you mean to.

Inside, the warmth hits like a slap — too loud, too bright. Laughter carries across the room. Glasses clink. Everything is normal in here, but you feel like the air’s been knocked out of your lungs.

You head straight for the booth where Buster’s still sitting, hunched over a beer, cracking a joke to someone who barely reacts. He doesn’t see you at first.

“𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒏, 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 ‘𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒔’ 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?” Buster calls out when he notices you approaching, grinning like he’s got another dumb punchline coming. “𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔, 𝒐𝒓—”

His eyes flick up when he sees you — and the way your face looks must say it all, because he straightens.

“𝑯𝒆𝒚,” he says, eyes narrowing, “𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅? 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌?”

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈,” you say flatly, reaching for your coat draped over the back of the seat. Your voice is clipped. Tight. The kind of tone that says 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐞.

Buster blinks, surprised by the sharpness.

“𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅? 𝑫𝒊𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

You pause — just briefly — coat halfway on, breath shallow in your chest. You stare at the table, at the empty glass you left behind, at the small bit of warmth you no longer want any part of.

Then you meet Buster’s eyes and say, “𝑮𝒐 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌. 𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍.”

Buster’s mouth opens — maybe to ask more, maybe to argue — but you’re already pulling your coat tight around you, moving fast.

You don’t want to explain.

You don’t want to relive it.

You just want to get out before your voice breaks.

Before Hank walks through that door.

Before you see his face and forget why you were angry.

Because you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 he’s behind you — or will be, any second now.

So you keep walking.

You pass the bar, shoulder brushing the edge of a stool, and push through the front door just as it swings open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t breathe.

You just walk out into the night and let it swallow you whole.

•

You didn’t sleep much.

You’d gone home with your jaw clenched and your coat still half-zipped, kicking your shoes off somewhere near the door and pacing your apartment for the better part of an hour — furious, confused, and heart-sore in a way you hadn’t expected.

The silence left behind by the argument was 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝.

It followed you from room to room. Into bed. Into your dreams.

Hank’s voice kept echoing in your head. That cold edge. The way he’d looked at you like you were a stranger — like everything you’d built, slow and careful, had been imaginary.

And worse, the part where he’d hesitated after.

The part where it looked like maybe… he didn’t hate you.

Maybe he hated himself more.

•

You spent the entire day in a quiet daze.

The anger from the night before had dulled, replaced by something heavier — something you didn’t want to acknowledge. You’d spent the morning trying to go about your day, but the ache in your chest, the echo of Hank’s words, kept creeping in.

You were still clinging to a thin thread of hope — that maybe he’d show up. That maybe he’d come by before noon. That maybe he’d knock on your door and say I didn’t mean it. That he’d take it back.

You hoped he’d ring. A simple apology. A reason. Anything.

He didn’t.

You stayed home all day, pacing your small apartment. Making coffee you didn’t drink. Turning the radio on, then off again. Watching the hands on the clock drag across the numbers like they were mocking you.

Every creak in the hallway made you pause.

Every voice outside your door made you glance toward it.

But none of them were him.

By the time evening settled in, that thread of hope had frayed and snapped.

And in its place was something worse — not anger, not even disappointment.

Just 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭.

A quiet, soul-deep ache.

Because you weren’t asking for a grand gesture. You weren’t asking for him to beg or fix everything in one breath.

You were just hoping he’d care enough to show up.

But he didn’t.

So you sat there in your living room, curled on the corner of your couch in the fading light, arms wrapped around yourself, and whispered to the still air:

“𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

•

It was 9:16pm

You were still curled up into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around your legs now, and let the soft crackle of the heater fill the silence. The TV glows across the room, muted but flickering, some late-night rerun playing on a local channel — a sitcom you’ve never really cared for, canned laughter rising and falling like it’s mocking you for sitting there alone.

A familiar record hums low from the turntable on the shelf nearby, something instrumental and old, layered under the buzz of the TV and the low hum of your building settling around you. something familiar, something comforting in theory, but your mind has long since tuned it out.

It’s just noise.

That’s all any of it is now. 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞.

You shift a little, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulder, head resting against the cushion. Your body is stiff, your eyes heavy — not from comfort, but from emotional fatigue. All day you’ve felt like you were moving through molasses, every second stretching into something heavier than the last.

You haven’t cried.

You haven’t yelled.

You’re just tired.

The kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

The kind that doesn’t come from staying up too late, but from caring too long with nothing to show for it.

Your eyes blink slowly, lashes fluttering against your cheek as the flickering TV pulls you just far enough into the edges of sleep. Your breathing steadies, slow and shallow. For the first time in hours, the buzzing in your chest quiets to a low hum. It’s not peace — not really — but it’s as close as you’ve gotten all day.

And then—

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬.

Soft.

Hesitant.

But clear.

You jerk slightly, heart lurching in your chest. For a second, you don’t move — not because you’re frozen, but because part of you thinks you imagined it.

The heater clicks again, the record scratches softly as it shifts into the end of its groove.

Silence.

And then—another knock.

Slower this time. Heavier.

You sit up fully now, blanket falling from your shoulders. Your heart is racing, but not from fear. From something else.

Something you tried to put to sleep.

You glance at the clock on the wall — just past ten. Too late for neighbors. Too late for anything casual.

You rise to your feet slowly, your socked footsteps soft on the hardwood. You move toward the door with the weight of someone holding their breath.

Because you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

Somehow, deep in your chest, you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

You reach the door and pause.

Your fingers hover over the knob.

You almost don’t want to open it — because if it’s not him, it’ll hurt. And if it 𝐢𝐬 him… you’re not sure what he’ll say.

Your fingers hover over the knob for a beat longer than they should. Your heart is racing, not with excitement, but with something more fragile — like hope that’s been dropped too many times and barely put back together.

And then you open it.

There he is.

Hank stands just outside your doorway, the soft golden hallway light washing over him in a way that makes him look both familiar and completely worn down. The light catching the tired lines under his eyes. His jacket is zipped up halfway, his dark hair a little tousled from the wind, eyes shadowed with something that looks like it’s been haunting him since last night. He looks rough around the edges — not in the way he usually does, not casual or unbothered — but like he’s been dragging around the weight of something heavy since the second you walked away.

And in his hands — clutched awkwardly against his chest — is a paper bag. A little bent at the corners , slightly creased like it’s been clutched too tightly for too long.

And for a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He looks at you — eyes soft, almost uncertain

His voice breaks the silence first, quiet , almost too softly,

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒓.”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

He swallows hard, shifting on his feet like the floor beneath him might give out if he stays too long.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅. 𝑶𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒎𝒆.” His voice is low, worn at the edges. “𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅… 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚, 𝒊𝒕’𝒅 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒆. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓.”

You watch him, arms folded tight across your chest. Still silent.

The hallway is quiet — just the soft hum of an old wall light above and the distant thrum of a car moving down the block.

Hank doesn’t move.

He shifts slightly on his feet, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then quickly down to the bag in his hands. His thumb traces the folded edge, a nervous motion, almost absentminded.

Then his eyes drift up again — not just at you this time, but past you.

Into the apartment.

The faint glow of your TV still flickers behind you. The low scratch of a record you forgot was even playing hums somewhere near the back of the room. The space feels dim and lived-in, but quiet. Still.

He looks back to your face.

Then the bag.

Then back again.

And then — barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid the words might break something between you — his voice almost catching in his throat - he says:

“𝑪𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏?”

His voice is soft. Not just polite — tentative. Like he’s not sure if he’s earned the right to cross your threshold anymore.

He’s not pushing.

He’s waiting.

Not just for permission to step inside your apartment — but for permission to try and fix what he broke.

And still — you say nothing.

Your arms are still folded tightly across your chest. You watch him — the way his shoulders stay slightly hunched, the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours now, hovering somewhere between your face and the floor like he’s bracing for rejection.

He doesn’t ask again.

He doesn’t have to.

Because slowly — deliberately — you unfold your arms.

You shift your weight, take a single step back.

Then another.

And without a word, you step to the side, opening the door just enough to let him in.

That small gesture — quiet, unspoken, but unmistakable — feels louder than anything either of you could say.

Hank blinks once, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him in. Like he’d already prepared himself to walk away if you didn’t move.

But now, he takes a breath. Just one.

And steps past you quietly, careful not to brush your arm as he moves through the doorway. You catch a faint trace of something warm — the scent of coffee on his jacket, maybe, or the cold still clinging to his collar. Familiar. Distant.

You close the door behind him.

Not hard. Not fast. Just… deliberately. As though sealing off the rest of the world, if only for a few minutes.

The lock clicks into place with a soft snap.

He stands just inside the entryway, his boots still on the mat, shoulders slightly squared like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he’s here. The bag is still in his hand, wrinkled at the corners, thumb still absently smoothing over the folded top like a nervous tell.

Your apartment is dim. A nearby lamp casts a warm, amber circle across the floor. The record you forgot was spinning scratches softly under a melody that now feels almost intrusive in its intimacy.

Hank takes a small step forward, eyes glancing around the room before settling on the couch.

The blanket you’d been curled under is still rumpled in the corner. Your cold cup of coffee sits abandoned on the table. It all feels quiet. Lived-in. Heavy.

He doesn’t sit.

He turns to face you instead.

You’re still standing near the door, arms crossed again — not in anger now, but in something more self-protective. Something aching.

Hank’s gaze meets yours. He doesn’t look away this time.

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches into something fragile and full.

And then he speaks.

Quietly.

“𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚.”His voice is rough, edged with nerves and something else — maybe guilt, maybe hope. “𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅.”

He lifts the bag in his hands slightly, almost like he forgot he was still holding it.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒙 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔,” he says. “𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕… 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒂. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌.” His lips tug into something that’s not quite a smile. “𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because he’s trying. He’s choosing every word with care. And you’re watching him closely enough to feel the weight behind every one of them.

He sets the bag gently on the coffee table, then straightens again.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒓,” he continues. “𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅. 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉. 𝑺𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚.”

He takes a step toward you. Not close enough to touch — just enough to feel more present in the room.

“𝑰 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔… 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

He takes another step forward, just a little.

“—𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚… 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝑰’𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.”

You feel that. Somewhere behind your ribs.

And even though part of you wants to stay guarded — just a little longer — the walls are beginning to shift.

Because his voice sounds different tonight.

Less like a man trying to prove something.

More like someone finally letting himself be seen.

He shifts slightly where he stands, like he’s bracing himself against something—only it’s not you, it’s everything he’s about to say.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒆,”he says finally, his voice lower now. Thicker.

His hands are in his jacket pockets again, and he stares down for a moment, at the hardwood floor between you, at the place where your blanket slipped off the couch.

“𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒐.”

You stand quiet, unmoving, your heart kicking against your ribs.

He looks down, jaw clenching for a moment before he exhales slowly — like the words are heavy in his chest, but they’re coming anyway.

“𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍… 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓.”

Hank’s eyes finally lift to meet yours, and for once—he doesn’t look away.

“𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒕… 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝑺𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅. 𝑳𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒐.”

There’s the barest curve to his lips—sad, self-deprecating.

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑, 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝑰? 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑺𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆.”

He steps forward again. Slowly. Carefully. You could almost smell his cologne.

“𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚… 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑰—”

He falters. Your eyebrows furrowed as you watch him take a breath in.

Not once did his eyes leave yours, as his voice drops to a whisper, softer than anything he’s said all night.

“…𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

The words fall into the space between you like something sacred. Not loud. Not desperate. Just… real.

And for a beat — just one long, stretched-out moment — the air shifts.

You don’t respond right away. You just stand there, the weight of the sentence settling into your chest like it belongs there.

Your breath catches — not loud, but enough that he notices.

Your hands tighten at your sides, fingers curling slowly into your palms like you’re trying to steady yourself — like bracing against a wind that never quite comes.

Your shoulders lift slightly — an instinct, a defense — like part of you wasn’t ready to hear it. Not tonight. Not from him. And especially not after everything.

But you don’t move away.

You don’t run.

And that’s what Hank notices.

You’re still here.

Still standing in front of him.

Your breath leaves you in a slow, uneven exhale, like your ribs are learning how to move again under the weight of his words.

And then, slowly — so slowly it’s almost cautious — you take one step forward.

He doesn’t move.

His face is unreadable for a moment. Still, open, afraid. Like he’s waiting to be turned away, like he’s already heard every version of rejection in his head and he’s bracing to finally hear it from you.

But instead, you speak.

Quietly.

“𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆?”

It’s not angry. It’s not even disappointed.

It’s hurt.

Plain and soft and aching.

Hank’s eyes flicker. “𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰’𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆.”

You nod once. That makes sense. It makes too much sense.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” you say, your voice barely more than a breath. “𝑻𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 — 𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔,” he says instantly. “𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔.”

You look up at him, eyes shining now, but not from tears alone.

“𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚.”

“𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘,” he says. “𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

You pause.

Let that sit.

Then: “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒓𝒆.”

He flinches slightly, like the words hit — but then your voice softens.

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

And that means something.

That means everything.

He steps forward now — not all the way, just enough to close the space a little more — and he lifts his hand like he might reach for you, then hesitates.

You meet him halfway.

You reach for his hand gently, your fingers brushing against his knuckles, and it’s enough. The contact is small, barely there, but it feels like the deepest exhale you’ve had in days.

He grips your hand with care — like he’s afraid he doesn’t deserve to — and when your fingers tighten around his, something breaks open between you. Something warm.

He leans in slowly, giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

His forehead rests gently against yours, his eyes fluttering shut, breath shaky between you both. His hand, still wrapped in yours, tightens just slightly — like if he lets go, you might vanish.

“𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” he whispers again, just for you this time. No distance. No fear. No hesitation.

You close your eyes, your chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm.

And this time, you don’t hesitate either.

“𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” you whisper back. Your voice is low. Barely above a breath. But the way his body responds — the way his fingers flex against yours and his shoulders drop just slightly in relief — it tells you he heard it loud and clear.

His eyes open again, and his lips part — not in surprise, but in something like disbelief. Like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, not really. Not after everything. But there it is. Said. Real.

And then — he smiles.

Not big. Not immediate. It starts slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to hold it in.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth.

He ducks his head slightly, like he doesn’t trust himself to react without messing it all up somehow.

You feel your own laugh bubble up — soft, tired, but real. And when he sees it on your face, hears it in your breath, he lets out a small chuckle too.

A quiet, nervous kind of joy.

Like you’re both breathing again for the first time.

And then — finally — you both lean in at the same time.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, a quiet collision of everything you’ve felt and said and feared in the last twenty-four hours. His hand cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek, grounding you. Your hands slide up to his chest, gripping the fabric of his jacket like he’s the only solid thing left in the room.

It’s not desperate.

It’s not rushed.

It’s just right.

And when you pull apart, just far enough to rest your foreheads together again, you’re both smiling this time — really smiling.

Because for the first time, neither of you is hiding anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors Note: This one was a long one! But my daughter has written this because of my love of Lou DP. Please give her credit. Merissa 🫶🏼❤️