Page 175 of When the Storm Breaks
Turning toward the stove, I force myself to focus, suddenly hyper-aware of every motion—the way I stir, the way I plate the food, the way I shove the memory back into the quiet corner of my mind where I keep all the things I’m not sure I’ll ever get to say out loud.
Dinner is fine—nothing more, nothing less.
I eat in silence, feed Margot, and take her out for her final walk.
When I get back, Chase is still at work. I sink into the couch, Margot nestles against me. I rub her ears, scratching up and down her back until she sighs, nuzzling in closer.
I tell myself we’re waiting up because she won’t settle until Chase walks through the door.
But that’s not the truth.
The truth is, I still hate being alone.
It’s been five months.
Life is better now, but it isn’t complete.
Maybe there’s a way to fix it, though. Maybe it’s time to stop writing words on skin—and finally make them mean something.
Chapter 56
Haiyden
The house looms ahead—unchanged, yet somehow, different tonight. Maybe it’s the tightness in my chest. Or the way the air feels charged, like something’s about to snap.
Only my dad’s car is in the driveway. My mom’s is probably tucked in the garage. He was always good at the little performances. The polite gestures. The illusion of being a good husband. A good father. Just another layer of the lie.
I pull in behind him, dread settling low in my stomach.
I’ve made it this far before—only to back out, drive past, pretend I never even thought about stopping.
Maybe this was a mistake.
The porch light flickers. I notice it from the car—just like I did when I was a kid.
Back then, it was a lighthouse, guiding me home. Now, it’s more like a warning—flashing yellow. Proceed with caution.
He never fixed it. That’s how things worked in this house. Problems weren’t solved. They were ignored.
But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I already know the truth. I just need to face it.
I step out of the car, hands flexing at my sides. As I climb the porch steps, my fingers brush the edge of my pocket—a quick check—then fall back to my side.
My hands curl into fists. Relax. Curl again.
I don’t knock. I never had to. Not even now, after all these months. After everything between us.
The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of old leather andhomeslams into me. But the warmth that used to live in this house—the noise, the laughter, Willow—is long gone.
All that’s left is rot.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen. The shuffle of slippers. I move toward the sound, each step pulsing with purpose.
When I step into the room, my mom spins around, startled. A dish towel twists in her hands. The plate she’s holding nearly slips from her fingers.
For a second, something tugs at me—guilt, maybe.
Wondering if she knew. If she missed me.
