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.”
