Page 10 of Hymns of the Broken
He always threatens and puffs up his chest like some big bad wolf, but by the time I get home, he’ll be gone. He’ll have calmed down, moved on, convinced himself I wasn’t worth waiting for.
That’s what I should hope, but all I’ve ever been shown is that nobody stays.
So when I pull up to my apartment and see that he’s still here, I can’t help but feel relieved.
I kill the engine and just sit. Watching the glow of my headlights bouncing off the curb, I kept one hand still frozen on the key. I know I should feel dread. I know I should be worried, but I sit there convincing myself this means I matter. That I’m worth staying for.
Even if he yells at me.
Even if I pay for making him have to wait.
Every step lands heavier than it should in the quiet hallway.
I round the corner at the end of the hallway, and then I see him.
Blake always looks like trouble disguised as charm. Sharp jaw, messy brown hair, soft lips that lie better than they kiss. He’s got that boy-next-door smile, the kind that wins trust before it twists, and he uses it like a weapon.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes like he’s trying to look casual—but I know that stance. I know what comes next.
“Look who finally came home,” Blake mutters as I get closer. “Thought maybe you got lost on your little ‘photo job.’”
I ignore the jab and pull my keys out of my pocket. My hand shakes just enough that I miss the lock the first time.
“I said I’m sorry,” he offers behind me, voice softer now. “Okay? I shouldn’t have freaked out. It’s just…when you don’t text back, I overthink. You knowthat.”
I glance over my shoulder. He’s already softened his features, already tilted his head, and stepped in closer.
“Baby…” he sighs, pressing a palm to my lower back. “I just wanted to see you before you left. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it. You know how much I hate fighting with you.”
“Mm.” I nod, small. “I’m just… tired.”
I want to believe it. God, I do. And maybe that’s the worst part.
When I finally get the door open and step inside, he follows without being invited. He always does.
I drop my bag just inside the door; the strap slipping from my shoulder with a thud I feel more than hear.
“I hate fighting with you,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck, like the weight of it all is his to bear.
“Yeah.” I keep my voice soft. “Me too.”
I don’t say more. Not until I figure out which version of him I’m getting tonight.
He steps closer, gentler now. “You’ve been pulling away for weeks. Please don’t act like I’m crazy for noticing. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m just trying to hold on to the only good thing I’ve got.”
“I know.” My stomach knots. I swallow it down with an ugly twist of recognition I wish I could hide better. I hate how easily his words find the places I keep buried.
“I didn’t mean to blow up your phone, alright? I just…” He drags a hand through his hair, stalling, eyes searching mine like the correct expression might erase everything that came before. “I thought I was losing you. And maybe I am.”
“I’m here.” The words come out fast, automatic. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
He lifts his hand to my cheek. Warm. Familiar. The kind of touch that makes the floor feel safer than it is.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispers. “Let me be the one here for you. The one you need.”
“Okay,” I breathe, even though it isn’t. “We can… talk later. It’s fine.”
It isn’t fine. But the word buys quiet.
