Page 177 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Finally, I log in to the Havoc socials and start reshaping the narrative. I loop Mollie in so that she knows what I’m doing. Then I schedule clips of Hunter smiling with fans, laughing with teammates, dropping autographed jerseys in the stands.
My job is to make sure that when people search his name today, they see more than that brutal fight. They see the man I know.
When I get home that afternoon, the light from the large picture windows is already fading to gray. I find Hunter sitting on the couch in silence, his laptop open in front of him, watching the video repeatedly.
He doesn’t speak when I walk in. He doesn’t look at me either. I can feel the shame radiating off him like heat.
I don’t push. I know Hux too well for that by now. Trying to force conversation or push platitudes will just make him lock up. I just walk over and touch his shoulder gently.
He finally looks at me. The devastation in his eyes makes my chest ache.
“Did you see it?” he asks. His voice is flat.
I nod. “I did.”
“Still want me now that you’ve seen what I’m really like?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. That’s what he thinks? That this video from years ago is his true self and everything else has been a lie?
Carefully, I reach down and turn his face to me. “I saw the video. It’s not great, I’ll be the first to admit it. But I also saw the man who comes home tired and quiet and tries to be better every day. I saw the man who helps his teammates instead of fighting them. I saw someone who tries to talk through problems first before throwing punches.”
I run my hand through his hair, soothing him. He’s hurting, and it’s painful to see.
He murmurs, “Juliet.”
“People who grow still carry scars, Hunter. That doesn’t make the growth less real.”
He stares at me like he can’t quite believe what I’m saying.
I sit beside him on the couch, staring up into his face. “I’m proud of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s when he breaks. Not with rage or violence, but with exhaustion. Like suddenly he’s been holding his breath for hours and now he’s finally let it out. He buries his face in my neck. I can feel his whole body shaking.
Huxley is trembling in my hands. I slide an arm around him, needing to hold him close. He breathes against my skin.
“I’m scared that video is all anyone will ever see when they look at me.”
I rub his back with one hand. “It’s not all I see.”
“What do you see?” he asks.
“I see someone who’s trying. Someone who makes me want to be better too.”
He pulls back to look at me, something vulnerable and desperate in his expression. “You make me want to be the man you see when you look at me.”
“You are, Hux. You already are that man.”
His expression looks so broken. He stands up, offering me a hand. I take it. He leads me to the bedroom, stripping off my clothes, pulling off his shirt. He takes a minute to drag his shirt over my lips, erasing the bright red lipstick I put on earlier.
Hux takes the rest of his clothes off and drops onto the bed. I straddle him, kissing him, wishing that I could take away the pain he’s feeling right now.
When we have sex, it’s not rushed or frantic like it’s been lately. It’s slow. Careful. He touches me like I matter, kisses me like I’m breakable in the best way.
This is what it’s supposed to be like, I realize. It’s a quiet, reverent intimacy. This is what safety feels like. Trust. Not performance, or proof or transaction. Just love, even if neither of us says the word out loud.
This kind of gentle, intimate sex wrecks my composure in ways that fast and desperate never could.
When it’s over, I’m curled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly return to normal. Without warning, I cry.
