Eventually I crawl back onto the bed. The same unwashed sheets, the same hollow warmth. I turn my face into the pillow and let out a sound that isn’t quite a sob. More like a low, broken noise from somewhere deep.
The world feels very far away. The Wolves, the rink, the fans, the headlines—all of it fades behind a fog. There’s only this room and the smell of him and the sound of my own breathing.
I think about calling someone. Phoenix, maybe. He’d show up.
But then what? I’d open the door, and he’d see what I’ve turned into. I can’t let him see me like this.
So I don’t.
I drink instead. Another glass. Then another. The bottle’s empty now. I drop it onto the floor, where it rolls and bumps against the dresser.
The quiet creeps back in. It’s almost peaceful, this stillness between one mistake and the next.
I close my eyes and tell myself I’ll stop tomorrow. I’ll clean up, charge my phone, go back to practice, pretend everything’s fine.
But I know I’m lying.
Because even if I cleaned every inch of this place, scrubbed the sheets, threw out every bottle, it wouldn’t change the fact that he’s gone. That he chose safety over me.
And I don’t know how to live with that.
So I drink.
And breathe.
And forget.
But what I can’t do is sleep. And now the bed feels like a restraint. I stumble my way to my sofa and am relieved to feelsome comfort in the coolness of the cushions. I settle in again. Maybe now I’ll rest.
The knock on the door comes slow, deliberate. Someone who knows me well enough to know I’ll pretend I’m not here if I don’t want to answer.
I don’t move. I don’t even blink.
“Magnus?” The voice is careful, patient. It belongs to Phoenix, which makes it worse. Someone who looks at me like I still have a chance, even when I’ve made it clear I don’t.
I want to tell him to go away. To stop. To leave me in this apartment with my mess, my bottles, the smell of him still clinging to the sheets. But my throat is too tight, and my tongue feels useless.
“Magnus, come on. Open up.”
I hear the shift in his weight, the small creak of the floorboards outside the door. He’s pacing. Not a lot, just enough to let me know he isn’t leaving.
I don’t answer.
“Look, I get it,” he says, softer now. “I get it, okay? You’re hurting. I know. But you can’t give up on everything just because of Alaric.”
How does he know? Maybe another headline.Kyle Thorn Fucks Alaric Hale. Kyle Thorn Golden Boy. Kyle Thorn Deserves Everything and Magnus Flint Deserves Nothing.
I scoff, though no one sees it. “Everything? My life? My team? My career?” I whisper, though the words barely register in my own head. “What’s left for me if he’s gone?”
There’s a pause on the other side. Phoenix breathing, steady and calm. I can feel the patience radiating through the door. I hate him a little for it.
“You think you’re the only one who’s ever been used?” he says, almost joking, almost teasing. But there’s steel underneath. “You think nobody’s ever been burned and broken and still found a way to get up?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My chest is tight. My lungs ache. Even the alcohol that’s supposed to make this easier is just a fog that won’t lift.
“Magnus,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not going to yell at you. I’m not going to leave either. But you can’t just—” His voice falters. Just for a fraction of a second, and I know he’s trying not to say something that would make me break down. “You can’t just let yourself rot here.”
I hear him shuffle back a step. The silence stretches, the kind that makes the room feel smaller. I feel the weight of his eyes on the door, even though I can’t see him. I want to tell him to leave. I want to scream that I don’t care about anything anymore.
