warnings: angst. mentions of drug use, physical altercation, themes of regret and emotional trauma
It started with the phone call.
You were in the kitchen, folding laundry on the counter, when Matt called,his voice tense, panicked. Chris hadn’t come home last night. Again. And this time, he wasn’t answering texts. Not his. Not yours. Nothing.
When Chris finally walked through the front door around noon, smelling of smoke and cheap liquor, your relief gave way to something colder. Anger laced with fear.
“Where the fuck have you been Chris?” you asked, too quiet.
He barely looked at you. “Out.”
“Out?” You tossed the shirt you were folding. “Do you even care that Matt was worried sick? That I was?”
Chris shrugged off his hoodie and walked past you toward the fridge like it was nothing. Like none of it mattered.
“I’m not a fucking kid,” he muttered.
“No, but you’re acting like one,” you snapped, heart hammering now. “You disappeared, Chris. You didnt answer a single call. Matt’s freaking out because he thought maybe you OD’d again, and you—”
“Again?” He turned then, sharply. “You think I’m using?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore!” you shouted. “You lie, you disappear, you shut down the second anyone tries to care about you. And I’m done tiptoeing around you.”
You pushed forward, voice cracking now. “You’re hurting people. You’re hurting me. And all we do is make excuses for you, especially your brothers, especially Matt. Do you even see what this is doing to him?”
Chris scoffed. “Don’t drag my brother into this.”
“Why not? He’s the only reason you haven’t crashed harder. He covers for you. He loves you. But you don’t even notice because you’re too busy setting yourself on fire and making people to try and put it out!”
Chris slammed the fridge door shut so hard the bottles inside clinked loudly. “Shut up.”
“No,” you said, heart pounding. “You want everyone to feel sorry for you, but you won’t let anyone in. Not Matt. Not Nick. Not me.”
His eyes burned with something raw. “You don’t get it. You’ve never gotten it.”
“I’ve tried, Chris!” you yelled. “I’ve stayed. Through everything. Through the panic attacks and the drinking and the nights you came home and didn’t say a word. I stayed. And you’re still shutting me out.”
“Because it’s not your job to fix me,” he said, voice raised now too. “I never asked you to stay!”
You flinched like he hit you, but he didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have.”
He took a step forward. “Then leave. Go run to Matt, if you love him so much. He’s better at playing the victim anyway.”
The words hit you like ice. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Chris’s fists clenched. “It means I see the way you look at him. Everyone does. You’re always so concerned with Matt. Not me. Never me.”
“That’s not true,” you whispered, stunned.
“You think I don’t know what it feels like to be second choice?” His voice cracked. “Even to my own fucking brother.”
The room spun. “You’re not second choice, god why would you even think that. You’re just... you're the one who pushes people away.”
Chris looked at you then. Right through your eyes. And you knew something in him had unraveled.
“Get out,” he said lowly.
You didn’t move. “Chris—”
“I said get out!” he shouted, and when you didn’t back away fast enough, he shoved you.
Your feet tripped on the rug and you fell backwards, slamming into the edge of the kitchen island. A sharp, brutal sound cut the air: your body hitting the counter. Your head snapped back against the wood floor.
Chris’s heart dropped, his face frozen in shock, in horror, in something too late.
Your side throbbed where you’d landed, and your head felt like it had cracked open. But it was the look on his face that hurt worse than anything.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he whispered, stumbling toward you. “Fuck. Are you-? I didn’t mean to swear. I didn’t mean—”
You flinched as his hand reached for you, and that was when the tears came.
He backed away like you’d burned him.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean to—”
You sat up slowly, clutching your side, dizzy and shaking. “Don’t.”
“Let me call someone—Matt—”
You laughed. It was broken and hollow. “Matt. Of course. You’re always calling for help after it’s too late.”
Chris looked like he was breaking. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was angry—”
“And you hit me,” you whispered. “You pushed me and I hit my head. Do you get that? Do you understand what you just did?”
Tears blurred your vision, but you refused to cry in front of him.
Chris collapsed to his knees, hands over his face. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t leave.”
But you were already moving.
Pain shot through your side with every step, but you didn’t look back.
Not even when you heard his voice crack behind you, whispering your name like a prayer.
Because love was not an excuse.
And this time, you weren’t going to stay and forgive the person who broke you.
Not even if it destroyed you to walk away.
It had been weeks since that night.
Since the fight that left her sobbing against the wall, since his hands shoved her — too hard, too angry — and she went down like a ragdoll. Since her breath got knocked out of her lungs and he’d stood frozen, horrified, like he didn’t know who he was anymore.
She hadn’t answered his calls. Not when he sobbed into the voicemail. Not when he texted, “I don’t know how to fix this. I love you. I’m sorry. Please.”
He didn’t deserve forgiveness. He knew that.
He was sitting on the back steps of his house — the ones they used to sneak out of, the ones they’d carved their initials into the summer they first kissed. He looked like a ghost of himself, hoodie pulled over his head, fingers trembling around the coffee mug he hadn’t touched.
When he looked up and saw her, something cracked in his face. Hope. Pain. All of it.
For a while, there was just the sound of the wind in the trees, and their silence — thick and aching.
Then she sat down beside him. Not touching. Not close. Just… beside.
He stared at his hands. “I think about it every day.”
She looked down too. “So do I.”
His throat moved, like he was swallowing glass. “There’s no excuse. I could say I was tired or overwhelmed or scared, but none of it matters. I hurt you.”
Her voice was small. “You did.”
His eyes welled. “And I hate myself for it. I will always hate myself for it.”
He turned to her, raw and broken. “But I’ve been going to therapy. I’ve been showing up for the ugly parts of myself. I’m not asking for a reset. I’m asking to be better. To be someone you’re never scared of again.”
Until finally, she whispered, “I was scared of losing you.”
That made his breath catch.
“I loved you,” she added softly. “Still do. That’s the worst part. Even when you pushed me. Even when I cried all night. Even now, I still—” Her voice cracked. “God, I still love you.”
Not in a loud way. Not with sobs. But in a quiet, trembling exhale, like he’d been holding himself together just long enough to hear that.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice wrecked. “You didn’t deserve any of it. And I will spend every day proving that I can love you the right way — safely, softly. Without hurting you.”
She looked over at him and saw the guilt carved into his face. The apology he kept whispering even when he thought she couldn’t hear it.
She nodded. “Not okay like it’s fixed. Not okay like I forget. But okay like… I’m still here. And if you are too, we’ll figure it out.”
Chris reached for her hand slowly — like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.
His fingers curled into hers, careful and shaking.
“You still love me?” he asked quietly, like he couldn’t believe it.
“I do,” she said. “And you love me.”
“So much it hurts,” he choked out.
She gave a soft, tired smile. “Then let’s learn to make it not hurt.”
And there, in the pale morning light, sitting on the back steps of the house where everything started — two broken people didn’t fix everything.
thank you for the request ♥️
why am i so bad at resolved angst like i had to fully add another section help anyways hope you liked and that if wasnt too much <3
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