Chapter 4 #2
My chest tightens, breath catching. I stare at the screen like I didn’t read it right. Like I missed a joke. I type with more force this time.
WHY? You don’t even know me!
Figured you might need a stable place to stay while you figure out your shit.
I read it once. Then again. And for some reason, that kills me more than if he’d said something sweet. Because he didn’t say I deserved it. He didn’t say it was out of pity or guilt or charity. He just said what no one ever has. That maybe I need a place to figure out my shit. And maybe I do.
I promise I’ll pay you back for all of this.
No, you won’t. You’ll figure out your next step and then get the fuck out of this state. Understand?
I stare at the words for a long time.
My throat tightens. My fingers hover over the keyboard. Finally, I type back.
Yes, sir.
He doesn’t say anything after that, and neither do I.
A month goes by in a blur.
I don’t see Swag. Most of the time, I don’t even hear from him.
But once a week, like clockwork, the house restocks itself.
I’ll come home from work to find the fridge full again.
Toiletries replaced. Sometimes a new hoodie folded on the couch or a box of snacks left on the counter like someone’s paying attention.
Like someone knows what I like and what I don’t like.
One day, there’s a course catalogue from LSU sitting on the table.
I freeze when I see it, unsure if I should laugh or cry.
As if I could afford to go there. As if college is something people like me just do .
But I don’t throw it away. I take it to the bedroom.
Lie on the bed and flip through the pages slowly.
I even circle a few things that sound interesting.
You know. If I were dreaming.
Sighing, I move toward the kitchen to fix dinner. The house is quiet, except for the steady hum of the rain outside. I pull a pot from the cabinet, facing the stove as I set it on the burner.
The front door slams.
I jump, heart lurching. A second later, a loud curse slices through the air.
“Fuck. Who put that there?”
My pulse kicks up.
“Swag?” I call out.
I move to the living room, bare feet padding across the floor. He’s there leaning heavily against the wall, one hand braced near the light switch, the other wrapped around a bottle.
Oh my god.
He’s drunk.
I’ve never seen him like this. Never seen him anything less than composed, controlled, even when he was pissed.
“Swag,” I say again, softer now, careful. “Are you okay?”
He lifts his head and meets my gaze.
“No,” he says simply, voice rough. “I’m not.”
I take a slow step forward. “What happened?”
He sways slightly, then raises the bottle in his hand and takes a long, hard drink. Bourbon. From the smell, it’s not his first.
“Ellie’s gone.”
The words are hoarse, almost broken. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t follow it up. Just lets the silence stretch between us, heavy and raw. I don’t know what happened. But I know enough to understand that whatever just broke inside him was big.
“Swag, come on,” I say gently. “Let’s get you on the couch.”
He doesn’t resist, just lets me guide him, his steps heavy and uneven. When he finally drops onto the cushions, the couch practically disappears beneath him. He’s so big, but he looks small right now. Lost.
I reach around him and grab the blanket folded on the armrest, tugging it over him. It’s the only thing I can do. The only thing that feels safe.
He leans his head back, eyes on the ceiling, jaw clenched.
“I don’t know what to do,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “She was… fuck. She was my everything.”
My stomach twists, a hollow ache blooming in my chest. I’ll never know what that feels like. To belong to someone like that. To be wanted that completely.
“I’m sorry she’s gone,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Just takes another long drink.
And the silence that settles over the room is so heavy, I can feel it pressing on my ribs.
“Do you want some soup?” I ask softly. “I was just about to heat up some.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring off into space like he’s still seeing something I can’t.
I wait a few seconds longer, then pad into the kitchen and turn on the burner. The soup doesn’t take long to warm up. It’s just a simple can of chicken noodle but the motion calms me. Something about stirring, something about doing, makes it easier to breathe.
When it’s ready, I ladle it into two bowls and carry them back to the living room.
Swag hasn’t moved. The bottle is empty now, hanging limp in his hand, and his head is tilted back, mouth slightly open.
Asleep. Or more likely, passed out. Either way, I hope he gets some rest. The kind that numbs you just enough to survive.
I sit next to him, careful not to jostle the couch too much.
The blanket’s still tucked over his legs.
The air smells faintly like bourbon and dust and whatever soap he uses.
I click the TV on low, letting some random cooking show fill the silence while I eat.
It’s a strange kind of peace. Just me. Him. A quiet house in the rain.
When I finish my soup, I carry my bowl to the kitchen, rinse it out, and glance at the untouched second bowl. I pour it back into the pot before putting it away.
I peek in on him one last time before heading to my room. He hasn’t moved. No, he’s still out cold and still clutching that empty bottle like it has something left to give him.
I slip into my room and close the door quietly behind me. It’s cold outside the covers, so I change fast, pulling on the oversized shirt I sleep in. Then I crawl into bed, curling up on my side.
I’m just drifting off when the mattress dips behind me.
My heart lurches straight into my throat.
“Swag?” I whisper, jerking upright. “What are you doing?”
There’s a heavy thump as his boots hit the floor.
“Don’t wanna sleep alone,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick and slurred.
Then he drops next to me with a groan, like gravity’s dragging him down.
He’s on top of the covers. I’m under them. But I can still feel the heat radiating off him. The size of him. The presence.
My mind starts racing.
Do I shove him off the bed? Tell him to leave? Stay quiet? Say something?
A loud snore answers for me.
I sigh, shoulders slumping. “Well shit.”
I peek over at him. His face is relaxed but not peaceful—his brow drawn tight, like he’s still carrying whatever weight he passed out under.
Without thinking, I reach over and brush my fingers across his head, smoothing back his hair.
He shifts, just slightly, then throws one arm around my waist, tugging me closer like it’s instinct.
I go still, breath caught.
But he doesn’t move again.
And somehow, even with everything racing in my head, I fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in a kind of comfort I never expected to find.