Page 132 of When the Storm Breaks
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I just stare at him, waiting. Expectingsomething.
An apology. An explanation. Maybe even a confession—that he’d meant what he said.
But nothing comes.
I turn away, sinking onto the couch. I hear him move behind me, but I don’t acknowledge it.
A few seconds pass before I hear the soft glide of his fingers along the back of the couch. Soft, slow. He trails them along the spine, inching closer to me.
Two fingers ghost up my arm, tracing their way to my shoulder, settling there like they belong.
My body reacts on instinct, leaning into him. Letting the need forcomfort take over—if only for a minute.
Behind me, Haiyden shifts.
I don’t realize what he’s doing until his fingers slip into my hair, brushing away the strands that have fallen into my face. He keeps going, threading his fingers through the length of it. Twisting. Untangling. Precise, careful movements.
It’s soothing. But it’s not for me.
It’s for him.
That’s when I notice the shaking.
I reach up, wrapping my fingers around his wrists, feeling the tremor beneath his skin. Gently, I pull him forward until his arms drape over my shoulders, his chin resting lightly against the top of my head.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“I’m fine.”
His response is clipped.
A lie.
He’s hiding behind it—refusing to admit the truth. The drinking. The disappearing act. The weight of whatever’s clawing at him from the inside.
I rock slightly, holding his arms tighter against me. But when I glance toward the kitchen, my grip loosens. I shift, starting to stand.
“I’ll make you breakfast.”
“No.” His response is firm. “It’s not your job to take care of me.”
“Haiyden, it’s fine,” I say, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
I wince. The words land harder than I mean them to—but there’s no taking them back.
“It’ll take me five minutes to make yousomething—”
“Stop.” His voice cuts through mine, exhausted. “Stop trying to fix me. I’m not your problem to fix.”
I turn to him, stunned. My mouth opens, but I have no idea what to say.
He must see it—the way the words hit me—because he drops his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth. A headache? Frustration? I don’t know anymore.
I push up from the couch, standing in front of him. And now that I can really see him, my earlier thought feels like an understatement.
He doesn’t just look like shit.
He looks like a shell of himself.
