Page 128 of When the Storm Breaks
Seconds stretch between us, long and aching. I wait for him to speak. I start to wonder if maybe he can’t.
“Can I come in?”
His voice is rough, hoarse—like these are the first words he’s said in days.
I grip the door frame as the smell of his breath nearly knocks me back.
Alcohol clings to him—acrid and sour, thick in the air between us.It’s not the lingering scent of a few drinks. It’s days of it, soaked into his clothes, his skin.
He smells like he’s been camped out at the bar since I last saw him.
Not as a bartender. As a patron.
The thought barely forms before an image slams into me—Haiyden, slumped over the desk at the bar. But not in the way I’ve seen him before. Not guarded. Not composed.
This version of him is destroyed. Empty. Head bowed. Fingers curled tight around a bottle, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I blink it away, but the image doesn’t fade. It morphs.
He’s in his bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across his face. He stands at the bookshelf, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the photo of him and Willow as kids.
Not moving. Just staring.
I swallow hard, forcing myself back into the present.
Haiyden is still standing in front of me, swaying just slightly, his lips parted like he’s caught between words.
I nod, slow and small, and step aside.
We both move carefully, like the wrong step might send us crashing through the fragile safety between us. The door clicks shut behind him. He heads straight for the couch and collapses onto it, barely in control.
His body sinks into the cushions. My eyes graze over him—his clothes, wrinkled and damp at the collar. His hands, trembling where they brace against his knees.
Then, past him—to the couch, the coffee table. And for the first time in days, I reallyseemy apartment.
It looks like a war zone.
Clothes piled haphazardly on the floor, draped over chair arms. Empty mugs and water glasses clutter the coffee table, all remnants of failed attempts at self-care. A blanket sits bunched in the corner of the couch, untouched, like I tried to sleep there but couldn’t bring myself to stay.
The sight of it all sends a fresh wave of exhaustion through me.
The mess, the neglect—it mirrors the wreckage inside me more than I want to admit.
I drag a hand through my hair, wincing as greasy strands stick to my fingers. It’s been days. The realization sends a slow flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.
I tried to pull myself out of this. Tried to snap out of the haze.
But I was stuck.
I shift awkwardly on my feet, rocking forward onto my toes, then back on my heels—a subtle attempt to ease the tightness building in my legs. But it does nothing to quiet the anxiety whirling in my chest.
I’m waiting for Haiyden to say something.
Anything.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seem to notice me fidgeting. Doesn’t acknowledge the quiet stretching between us.
It’s heavier than usual, weighted with unspoken words—but somehow, it’s almost… comforting. Like having him here, justhere, puts something back in place that’s been missing.
