Mark could feel it, the tension in the air thick and almost suffocating. Every breath Peter took seemed heavy, labored, and every movement of his hands, his leg bouncing, told Mark something was wrong. The words caught in the air, stuck between them like a wall, and Mark was starting to feel like he was trapped on the other side of it.
Peterâs voice cracked, and Markâs heart skipped. He saw it. The way Peterâs hands shook, the way his leg tapped frantically, the slight gloss in his eyes that Peter tried so hard to hide. Peter was on the edge of breaking down, but he was doing everything in his power to keep it together, to keep his walls up. Mark knew that feeling. He recognized it. It was the same one he wore every damn day.
When Peter spoke, his words were harsh, almost defensive, but Mark could hear the cracks underneath. "I'm not running. I'm not scared of anything." But Mark saw it. That wasnât the truth. The shaking, the trembling lip, the way Peterâs eyes kept avoiding him. The truth was slipping through the cracks in his defenses.
Peter said he wasnât scared, but Mark could hear it in his voice, see it in the way his body tensed up. He could almost smell itâfear. Fear of something bigger than either of them could handle.
âIâm not hiding from you,â Peter said, and the words didnât even make it out like they were supposed to. Mark could hear the hesitation. The vulnerability. Peter was lying to himself. But Mark wasnât about to call him out on itânot yet, anyway. Heâd been there before, too. He understood what it was like to keep those walls up, to lock everything inside until it made you want to suffocate.
But then Peter spoke again. His words cut through the thick air like a knife, too sharp to ignore. "And I shut down when we're close because I don't like you, Hoffman. You do nothing but-"
Peter stopped himself, and Mark felt the weight of the words that hadn't been finished. The ones that lingered like a shadow, threatening to reveal something deeper than just anger or confusion. Something that could change everything.
Markâs pulse raced. He wanted to push him further, demand to know what Peter had really meant, but he knew better than to rush it. It wasnât the time for that. Still, the words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. You do nothing but... what?
Markâs eyes softened just slightly as he watched Peter's lip, the blood starting to drip again. Peter didnât wipe it away, didnât even move his hand. It was like he wanted to bleed, wanted to feel it. Wanted to show Mark that he wasnât as cold as he kept pretending to be.
Mark knew the feeling too well. It was a strange sort of comfort to know that Peter was hurting, too. As fucked up as it sounded, it was a relief to know Peter wasnât the stone wall he tried so hard to be. And maybe, just maybe, Mark could find a way in. Even if it scared the hell out of him.
âPeterâŠâ Markâs voice was softer now, almost hesitant, as if he was treading carefully through the words. He didnât want to break Peter any more than he already was, but he couldnât stand watching him fight this on his own.
Mark reached out by putting his arm on the centre console, just slightly, his fingers brushing the air near Peterâs hand, though he didnât touch him. He wasnât sure if Peter would pull away or not. He wasnât sure if Peter even wanted him near.
But the words that followed from Peter hit Mark like a punch to the gut. âI donât like you.â And it stung more than anything Mark could have expected. He knew Peter wasnât ready for anything else, but that hurt. Hurt more than he wanted to admit.
Mark leaned back in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldnât let Peter see the effect those words had on him, but it felt like a thousand knives had pierced through his chest all at once.
âRight.â Markâs voice was tight, holding back something deep inside. No, Peter. You donât just shut down and say you donât like me and expect me to walk away.
But Mark didnât say that. He didnât push. He couldnât. Not yet. The words Peter had left unfinished were eating away at him, though. The silence was deafening.
And in that silence, Mark could feel itâthe shift, the crack in Peterâs armor. Peter might not have been ready to admit anything, but Mark could see it now. He could see the truth bleeding through, and he wasnât going anywhere.
They drove in silence for a few more moments, the tension between them almost unbearable. Then, finally, they pulled into the parking lot of the station. The headlights cut through the night, casting long shadows across the concrete. The sound of the engine slowing to a stop filled the car, but neither of them made a move to get out immediately.
Mark just sat there for a second, his eyes still on Peter. He could feel the weight of the moment hanging between them, almost like it was going to shatter if either of them spoke again.
After what felt like an eternity, Mark exhaled quietly and opened the door. "Weâre here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He didnât know what else to say. He didnât know how to fix what had been broken, or if it could even be fixed at all. All he knew was that he wasnât leaving yet.
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