Page 168 of When the Storm Breaks
Maybe it was all I deserved.
At some point, I moved the ZZ plant.
Couldn’t stand waking up to it—alive, thriving—like life went on without her. Like the world didn’t stop for me.
So I tucked it away. Set it on the bookshelf, right next to the origami. Right next to the photo of me and Willow.
That’s where it belongs now. With the memories.
Weeks passed like that.
Then one morning, I woke up to Chase pounding on my door, his fist shaking the frame.
I shoved a pillow over my head. Didn’t help.
“I swear to God, Haiyden, if you don’t open this door, I will break it down.”
His usual charm was gone—no jokes, no sarcasm. Just steel.
“Go away, Chase,” I mumbled.
Silence. Then a sudden, heavy thud—his whole body slamming against the door.
I rolled over, face to the mattress, pillow back over my head.
Another crash. “Jesus, man.”
The door frame groaned, but it held.
I heard him stomp off. Thought I was in the clear, that he’d given up. But seconds later, keys jingled. The lock clicked.
The door swung open, and light poured in—like a knife to my skull.
I squinted as Chase stepped into view, breathless and pissed, surveying the wreckage. Without a word, he flicked on the overhead light. My head throbbed. I groaned, dragging the pillow back over my head.
“First of all,” he said, voice flat. “It’s fucking disgusting in here.”
I heard him moving through the room, probably clocking the half-empty bottles, the clothes on every surface, the takeout containers crusted over on my nightstand.
“Second of all—get dressed. We have somewhere to be.”
I didn’t move. “Not happening.”
The mattress dipped near my hip as he leaned in.
“Yeah, see, no. You don’t really have a leg to stand on here, Haiyden,” he said, yanking the pillow from my head and the blanket from my body. “I’ve been covering your shift for weeks. I’m paying your half of the rent. And on top of all that, I’m trying really fucking hard to keep my cool while you sit here drinking yourself into oblivion and won’t even tell me why.”
He crouched beside the bed, forearms on his knees. No teasing grin. Just exhaustion—and something that looked a lot like fear.
Out of nowhere, he slapped me. Hard.
It stunned me. Stung like hell.
“I need you to get up,” he said quietly. “Because I promiseyou—you do not want to see me actually pissed off. And I’m close.”
I paused, weighing my options. But something in his voice told me he wasn’t bluffing. So I sat up, rubbing my face.
“Where the fuck are we going?”
