Chapter 13 #2
The bottle’s half-empty before I notice. I don’t bother pouring another glass. I drink straight from the neck, staring at the reflection of the city through my window. I wonder if he’s out there somewhere, in one of those bright towers, sleeping in silk sheets, forgetting me like I was a bad idea.
I pull out my phone.
The screen glares at me, too bright. I scroll through our messages, the teasing, the fights, the soft things we said when we pretended we weren’t broken. The last text was from me, a week ago: You okay? No reply.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I hit call anyway.
It rings once, twice, three times. No answer.
“Figures,” I mutter, swallowing another mouthful. The room tilts slightly. I wait, staring at the phone like it owes me something. Then I hit call again.
He picks up on the fourth ring. “Magnus?”
The sound of his voice cracks something inside me. “Hey,” I manage, voice rough, unsteady. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“It’s two in the morning,” he says, calm but tight. “So yeah. A little.”
I laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh that hurts your ribs. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d call.”
“You’ve been drinking.” It’s not a question.
“Maybe.” I slump deeper into the couch, eyes blurring. “You always sound so put-together, even when you’re half asleep. It’s annoying.”
He sighs softly, like he’s been here before—like he knows the rhythm of my self-destruction by heart. “What happened tonight?”
I should lie. I should tell him it’s fine, that I just wanted to hear his voice, that I’m not falling apart. Instead, I say, “We lost. My fault.”
“Magnus—”
“I blew it,” I cut him off. “Coach and Phoenix benched me. I kept picking fights like an idiot. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Silence. I can almost hear his heartbeat through the line.
“I shouldn’t have called,” I say quickly. “I just—I needed to hear you. I can’t—”
“Magnus,” he says again, quieter now. “You need to slow down. You sound—”
“Crazy?” I laugh, sharp and brittle. “Yeah, probably. I feel crazy. You make me crazy. You—” The words tangle in my throat.
I press a hand to my chest, like I can physically keep the ache from spilling out.
“You don’t get it, Alaric. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Every damn day, you’re in my head. I’m trying to move on, but I can’t. ”
He’s quiet again, and I imagine him sitting up in bed, running a hand through his silver hair, biting his lip the way he does when he’s thinking too hard. I want to see it. I want to touch it.
“I’m sorry,” I say suddenly. The words come out broken. “I’m sorry for the shit I said and for how I acted. For being—” I gesture vaguely, forgetting he can’t see me. “For being me. For not being enough.”
His voice softens. “Magnus—”
“I mean it,” I insist. “You’re this, this perfect thing, and I’m just…” I laugh bitterly. “Some guy with too many bruises and not enough money. I know what people say about me. I know what they think. And maybe they’re right. But when I’m with you, it feels like I could be more than that.”
He breathes in, slow. “Magnus, you don’t have to apologize for who you are.”
“I do,” I whisper. “Because you deserve better than this. Better than me calling you drunk in the middle of the night. Better than someone who can’t give you what you need.”
I hear the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of a bed frame. “Where are you right now?”
“Home,” I say. “Alone. Surprise, surprise.”
“Put the bottle down.”
I glance at the whiskey in my hand. “I need it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t get it,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “It’s the only thing that shuts it off. The noise. The guilt. The—everything.”
There’s a long pause. “You called me instead,” he says finally. “That’s something.”
The simplicity of it hits me harder than the liquor. I close my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. He’s calm. Always calm. He could talk me off any ledge, and he doesn’t even know how close I am to jumping.
“I don’t want to ruin you,” I say. “I don’t want to ruin us.”
“There is no us,” he says gently.
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Liar.”
“Magnus—”
“No, listen,” I cut him off, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “You can say whatever you want, but I know what I felt. I know what you felt. You can pretend it was a mistake, but I saw it in your eyes. You wanted it as much as I did.”
He exhales, a sound somewhere between frustration and surrender. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m honest,” I correct. “Maybe for once in my life.”
He doesn’t answer. I can hear the faint echo of his breath through the line, steady, grounding. It’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.
“I can be quiet,” I say after a while. “I can stay in the dark, if that’s what you need. I don’t care about the headlines or the gossip or your perfect family. I just want you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
“Magnus…”
“I mean it,” I insist, voice cracking. “You can keep me a secret. Just don’t shut me out.”
The silence stretches. For a moment, I think he’s hung up. Then, softly: “You don’t have to beg me to stay.”
“Feels like I do,” I whisper. “You keep walking away.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just… trying to figure out how to do this without destroying us both.”
I drag a hand down my face, the stubble scraping my palm. “You make it sound like we’re some kind of tragedy.”
“Aren’t we?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer for that.
The world tilts again. I lie back on the couch, phone pressed to my ear, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The plaster’s cracked; I never noticed before. Funny what you start seeing when you’ve got nothing left to hide behind.
“Magnus,” he says, quieter now. “Listen to me.”
“Always do.”
“Put the bottle down,” he repeats.
I sigh. “You sound like Phoenix.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
“I doubt it.”
“Try,” he says.
For some reason, I do. I reach over, set the bottle on the table. My hand trembles. It feels like giving up, like surrendering something sacred. But when I do, the room stops spinning quite so hard.
“Good,” he says softly. “Now breathe.”
I do. In. Out. Slow. It’s the first time tonight I’ve really listened to him.
“You’re not alone, Magnus,” he says. “Even when you think you are.”
My throat tightens. “Why are you so good at this?”
“At what?”
“Fixing broken people.”
He laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Who says I’m not broken too?”
Something in me eases. The ache dulls, just a little. We stay like that—two people breathing through static, separated by miles and choices. I don’t know how long it lasts. Could be minutes, could be hours. Time doesn’t mean much anymore.
Eventually, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “Get some sleep.”
“I don’t want to hang up.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I close my eyes. His voice fills the space where all the noise used to be. I can almost see him sitting on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, trying not to let me hear the worry in his voice.
“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur.
“I don’t deserve you. You deserve everything,” he replies softly.
The line goes quiet again, but I can still hear him breathing. Steady. Real. The sound keeps me tethered.
Then, faintly, a knock. I frown, thinking it’s in my head. But it comes again. Louder this time. A solid rap against the door.
“Hold on,” I say, sitting up. The room sways.
I make my way to the door.
“Probably my neighbor telling me to shut up, one sec.”
“Mags.”
I pull it open, and it’s not my neighbor. It’s him. It’s Alaric. He’s standing in the hallway, his coat damp from the rain, his eyes wide and furious and scared all at once. His phone is still at his ear, like he’s afraid to let it go.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The phone is still pressed to my ear, his voice echoing through the speaker even though he’s right in front of me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.
“Then tell me to leave,” he says.
And I don’t.