Summary: There is normally a moment in life when you can tell where everything went wrong. You aren’t sure where you went wrong, maybe it was going to the last drop in the first place, or maybe it was falling in love with a man who you knew would never return your love.
Content warning: Emotional manipulation and toxic relationship dynamics, Unrequited love and abandonment, Verbal and emotional conflict, Grief and loss of a loved one , Mentions of violence and threat, Depictions of psychological trauma and emotional exhaustion, Power imbalance in romantic relationships, Themes of self-worth, healing, and recovery from emotional harm, Kind of a unresolved ending?
AN: My first thats in’t wlw!! I hope it isn’t bad :( Enjoy!!! <3
I still remember when nothing seemed to matter. When we’d sink into the cracked vinyl booths at The Last Drop, let the jukebox hum out its tired old tunes, and just watch the world drift past the fogged-up windows.
After the bridge—after Felicia—it was just me and Sil. The silence between us felt louder than the sirens had. Everything had shifted.
And maybe that’s why Vander did what he did. Because the world we knew had twisted into something unrecognizable. And some people can’t live in the aftermath.
Vander never waited. He moved. He made choices that felt like betrayal to some of us, but maybe they were the only choices left. Maybe he saw the cracks before we did. Maybe he thought if he acted fast enough, he could stop the whole thing from falling apart.
But it did. And now all we have are the echoes. The booth where Felicia used to sit. The song she always picked. The bridge we never cross.
It was just me, Sil, and Zaun. It wasn’t until Powder- Jinx- came along that he started to drift away. Every time I asked about it he said the same thing; “It is for the betterment of Zaun.”
I don’t know why I allowed myself to stay for so long, maybe it’s because he was all I had left. Maybe it’s because I was used to living with him. Loving him. Maybe I was used to living in the lap of luxury, or as close as we could get to it in Zaun. But really I knew it was because I couldn’t bring myself to leave him.
So I endured the cycle over, and over , and over again.
He would come to me, give me all his love and convince me that this time will be different, and then he would leave me again.
I don’t think it was until Vi came back to Zaun that something in me changed. He never told me, no I had to figure it out for myself that there was still someone out there from the world I used to know.
And something about that made me resent him. Not because he left. Not even because he came back. But because he reminded me that survival doesn’t always mean reunion. That some people get to return, and some of us just stay behind, holding the pieces.
I don’t know why I stay, I never have but I’ve never been able to bring myself to leave him, not even now.
Maybe it’s the way he still looks at me like I’m part of something worth salvaging. Or maybe it’s just inertia—grief settling into the bones, making it harder to move.
But I’ve never been able to leave him. Not after Felica. Not after the bridge. Not even now, when everything in me says I should.
There’s a kind of gravity to him. Not the kind that pulls you in, but the kind that holds you down. And I’ve learned to live in that weight. To breathe under it. To mistake it for love.
Even when he discards me again, I just stand up and fall into place, just like always.
“Silco. Why do you never choose me?” The words hang there, fragile and reckless. And the moment they leave my mouth, I want them back. Because he turns. Because he gives me that look. The one that says I’ve crossed a line. The one that says he heard me—and won’t answer.
I brace for silence. For the way he always lets it linger. For the way he makes me feel foolish for wanting more.
But I don’t take it back. Not this time. I let the question live in the air between us. Even if it dies there.
He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s dissecting me. Like the question wasn’t a plea, but a puzzle.
I shift, suddenly aware of how small I feel in the room. The way the light hits his desk. The way everything in here smells like smoke and steel and him.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but he cuts me off with a glance. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just final.
“You always mean it,” he says. Quiet. Measured. Like he’s naming something I’ve tried to bury.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe I do mean it every time. Every time he leaves. Every time I stay. Every time I fall into place like a soldier who forgot how to disobey.
He walks past me, slow. Deliberate. His hand brushes mine—not enough to hold, just enough to remind me he could.
“I don’t choose you,” he says, “because you never make me.”
And then he’s gone. Again. Like always.
And I stand there, heart pounding, wondering if this is the moment I finally do.
I don’t hear him come in. Just the soft click of the door, the quiet shuffle of his coat being hung up like he’s trying not to wake something.
I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, boots on, hands loose in my lap. Not waiting. Just… not moving.
He crosses the room slowly, like the air between us might break. No words. Not yet.
Then he kneels in front of me. Not to beg. Not to command. Just to be close.
“I don’t want to fight tonight,” he says. His voice is low, stripped of its usual edge. “I don’t want to win.”
I look at him, unsure. Because this isn’t how it goes. This isn’t the pattern.
But his hands find mine. Careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
“I just want to love you,” he says. And for once, it doesn’t sound like a trap. It sounds like a man trying to remember how to be soft.
I don’t answer. Not with words. Just let my forehead rest against his. Let the silence be enough.
It felt like my whole world had tipped sideways. Like gravity had shifted and I was sliding toward something I couldn’t stop.
I watched him try to hurt Vi. Watched his hand move, deliberate and cold, like she was just another threat to neutralize. Not a girl he once swore to protect.
And I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because it wasn’t just the violence. It was the choice.
He chose this. Chose power over memory. Control over love. And somewhere in the back of my throat, something cracked.
He whipped his head toward me, eyes wild—lit with something sharp and frenzied that didn’t belong in his otherwise composed frame.
“What is wrong with you?” I shouted, voice cracking. “Are you blind?”
I stepped forward, chest heaving, hands trembling at my sides. “It’s Vi! The one you swore to fix this hellhole for!”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me like I was the one who’d betrayed him.
“You said you’d make it better,” I said, voice dropping to a rasp. “You said you’d build something for her. For us.”
He flinched—barely. But I saw it. That flicker of doubt. That crack in the armor.
And I pressed into it. “Don’t you dare pretend this is justice. Don’t you dare look at her like she’s the enemy.”
I was crying now, I think. Or maybe shaking. Or maybe both.
“I stayed,” I whispered. “I stayed through everything. And if you do this-”
Silence. Then a breath. Then something in him shifted.
It wasn’t hard to leave after that. Not after I knew what he was willing to give up.
The air in Zaun always hung heavy. A metallic tang, sweet and putrid all at once, clung to everything – to the crumbling brick, the perpetually damp cobblestones, and the very fabric of my clothes. The chem-haze, a sickly green veil, muted the already weak light filtering down from Piltover, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the flickering gas lamps. My small apartment, perched precariously on the edge of the Undercity’s highest tier, offered a sliver of a view, mostly of other dilapidated structures leaning into each other like drunken giants. But tonight, it was just the haze, thick and suffocating, pressing against the grimy windowpanes.
A sharp rap, three quick bursts, echoed through the quiet space. My hand, already reaching for the chipped mug on the counter, froze. It wasn’t the usual hesitant knock, the kind that preceded a debt collector or a nervous neighbor. This was precise, deliberate. My heart, a traitorous thing, gave a familiar lurch.
I wiped my hands on my apron, the rough fabric doing little to calm the tremor that had started in my fingertips. The apartment felt colder than usual, despite the simmering pot of stew on the stove. I walked to the door, my footsteps unnaturally loud on the bare floorboards. I pressed my ear against the wood, a foolish habit. Silence. Then another rap, softer this time, almost a question.
I unlatched the heavy bolts, one by one, the metal groaning in protest. The door creaked open, just a sliver.
His silhouette filled the frame, tall and lean, framed by the swirling green. One eye, the scarred one, caught the faint light from within, an unsettling gleam. The other, dark and intense, searched mine. He hadn’t changed. Not outwardly. The sharp planes of his face, the way his dark hair fell across his brow, the tailored coat, always a little too fine for Zaun, always a little too clean.
“(Name)” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, a sound I knew better than my own breathing. It was both a comfort and a curse.
I pulled the door wider, stepping back into the dimness of my living room. “Silco.” My voice was flat, devoid of the tremor that still vibrated through my bones. I refused to let it betray me, not again.
He stepped inside, the scent of expensive pipe tobacco and something uniquely him – a mixture of ambition and decay – filling the small space. He didn't move further, just stood there, his gaze sweeping over the familiar, worn furniture, the stack of books on the floor, the faint glow from the stove.
“You didn’t answer my message,” he said, his good eye fixed on me.
“I got it.” I walked to the counter, picking up the mug. It was still warm. “Didn’t feel the need.”
A beat of silence stretched, thick as the chem-haze outside. He moved then, slowly, deliberately, towards the worn armchair by the window. He didn’t sit, just rested a hand on its back, his fingers tracing the frayed velvet. “I’m back.”
“I can see that.” I turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You always come back.”
He flinched, a subtle tightening around his mouth. “This time is different.”
A short, humorless sound escaped me. “It always is, Silco. Every time, you promise the world, or at least a corner of it where the air isn’t quite so toxic. And every time, you leave. For a grander vision, a bigger game, a phantom future.”
His gaze sharpened. “My vision is real. My future, I’m building it.”
“And you expect me to believe I’m suddenly part of it?” I scoffed. “After all these years? After all the goodbyes you never said, just vanished into the haze?”
He pushed off the chair, taking a step towards me. “I never wanted to leave you. You know that.”
“Do I?” My voice rose, a sharp edge cutting through the melancholic air. “I know you needed me. For comfort. For quiet. For a place to land when the world outside chewed you up. But you never stayed. Not when it truly mattered. Not when Vander’s betrayal burned you raw. Not when Felicia… when she fell on that bridge, fighting for a cause you championed, a cause you then abandoned for your own twisted ambition.”
His scarred eye narrowed. The mention of Felicia always drew blood, even from him. “Felicia’s death… that wasn’t my fault. That was the bridge, the violence Piltover brought down on us.”
“And you used it. You used her. Just like you used everyone, Silco. Just like you use me.” My voice cracked on the last word, a betrayal. I hated the sound of it, the raw vulnerability.
He took another step, closing the distance between us. His hand reached out, hovering. “I loved Felicia. You know that too. She was our friend.”
“She was our friend,” I echoed, the words heavy with forgotten grief. “And you let her go. Just like you let me go, every time. You walked away from everything we built, everything we shared, for the promise of power. And now you’re here, saying you’ve changed. What’s changed, Silco? Your ambition? Or just your tactics?”
His hand finally settled on my arm, a light, almost hesitant touch. A jolt, familiar and unwelcome, shot through me. “I’ve learned, I’ve built a foundation. I have power now, real power. Enough to protect what’s mine. Enough to protect you.”
I pulled my arm away, shaking my head. “Protect me? From what? From you leaving again? From the next grand scheme that pulls you away? Or from the ghosts of the past that still haunt this city, ghosts you helped create?”
He sighed, a deep, weary sound. “I understand your skepticism. I’ve given you every reason to doubt me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of frustration. “But I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of the fight, the endless struggle, without… without you here.”
“You chose it, Silco,” I reminded him, my voice softer now, tinged with that familiar, aching sadness. “You always chose it. The dark, the power, the isolation.”
“And it changed me,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It made me ruthless. It made me… hard. But it also showed me what truly matters. It showed me what I’d lost, what I kept leaving behind.” He looked up, his good eyes pleading. “I want to come home, for good this time. I’m ready to build something real, something lasting, with you.”
The words hung in the air, potent and dangerous. Home. He hadn’t used that word in years. It was a bait, a lure I’d fallen for countless times. The whispered promises in the quiet hours, the shared warmth, the fleeting sense of belonging before he’d slip away, leaving an empty space that echoed with his absence.
“You’re ready?” I challenged, taking a step back, putting more distance between us. “Ready for what? For the quiet nights? For the mundane mornings? For a life that isn’t a constant struggle for dominance? You wouldn’t know how to live it, Silco. You thrive on the edge. You always have.”
He pushed a small, leather-bound book from his inner coat pocket, a familiar, worn volume. He held it out to me. “This was Felicia’s. You remember. The one she carried everywhere.”
My breath hitched. The old book of Zaunite folklore, filled with her meticulous notes, her dreams of a better Undercity. I hadn’t seen it since before… before the bridge.
“Where did you get this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“I kept it safe. After… after everything. I found it. I kept it, because I knew how much it meant to her. To us.” He held it out further. “I want to honor her. Really honor her. Build the future she dreamed of, but do it right. Not with blind rage, but with purpose. And I want you by my side.”
My fingers trembled as I reached for the book. The leather felt soft, familiar under my touch. A wave of grief, cold and sharp, washed over me. Felicia’s face, bright and defiant, flashed in my mind.
“You think this changes anything?” I clutched the book to my chest. “You think bringing back a ghost makes up for all the living you abandoned?”
He took another step, his hand reaching out again, this time to cup my cheek. His thumb brushed against my skin, sending a shiver through me. “It’s not just a ghost, It’s a reminder. A constant, aching reminder of what I lost, and what I could lose again. I’ve spent years chasing power, believing it was the only way to secure our future. But I’ve learned. The cost of that power, the loneliness of it… it’s too high. I want a different kind of strength now. One built on trust. On a shared purpose. On us.”
His gaze, usually so guarded, was open, vulnerable. It was the look I’d seen only in the deepest hours of the night, moments before he’d slip away. But this time, it was in the harsh light of my apartment, under the green haze of Zaun.
“You say you’ve changed,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, the words tasting like ash. “But I’ve changed too, Silco. I’m not the same woman who waited by the window, clinging to every whispered promise. I learned to build a life without you. A quiet life. A safe one. One where my heart isn’t constantly bracing for impact.”
He swallowed, his throat working. “I know. And I don’t expect you to simply forget. I expect you to be wary. To be angry. But I hope… I hope you can see that this isn’t another fleeting return. This is me, truly, finally, coming home.”
I looked at him, truly looked at him. The lines of fatigue around his eyes, deeper than before. The subtle tremor in his hand as he dropped it from my face. He *was* different. Or maybe, I was just seeing him differently. I’d spent so long building walls, protecting myself, that I’d forgotten what it felt like to see beyond the mask.
“What about Vander?” I asked, the name a raw wound. “Is that part of your ‘new’ purpose? To finally forgive him? Or to crush him completely?”
A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but profound. “Vander is a part of our past. A wound that never fully healed. But my focus now is on Zaun. On its future. And that future… it doesn’t involve endless vendettas. It involves building. Forging. Uniting.” He paused, his gaze intense. “And if it means finding a way to coexist with old enemies, for the greater good of our people… then I will find it.”
It was a startling admission. The old Silco would have scoffed, would have planned his revenge with meticulous detail. This… this was something else.
“And what about me, Silco?” I pressed, my voice thick with emotion. “What do I want? Have you ever stopped to consider that? Or am I just another piece in your grand design, waiting to be placed?”
He shook his head, his good eye shining with something raw—something close to desperation. “No. Never,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “You are… you’ve always been the anchor. The only thing that ever held me steady.”
He stepped closer, slower than usual, like afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast. “I know I’ve asked too much of you,” he said, breath hitching. “Always. But I’m asking one more time. Just one more. To believe me. To give us a chance. A real one.”
Outside, the chem-haze thinned for a breath, letting in a sliver of Piltover’s cold light. It painted him in pale gold, like the city was trying to remind me who he wasn’t.
I clutched Felicia’s book tighter, the worn cover digging into my palms. It was the last piece of her I had. The last piece of who I used to be. Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Untouched by him.
I closed my eyes. Breathed in the tainted air of Zaun, the only home I’d ever known. He was here. Again. And this time, something in him felt different. Not just the words. But the way his shoulders sagged under them. The way his voice trembled. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing left worth saving.
But I was different too. The years had carved me into someone else—someone who knew how to live without him. Someone who’d learned that love without safety is just another kind of wound.
I opened my eyes. Met his gaze. And it hurt. God, it hurt.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. The words scraped their way out of me, each one a fresh tear in something already frayed. “I don’t know if I can. The scars… they run deep, Silco. And I’m tired of bleeding.”
He reached for me, slow and careful, like he’d finally learned how not to break me. Took Felicia’s book from my hands and set it gently on the table. His fingers lingered on mine, warm and trembling.
“Then let me stop the bleeding,” he murmured. “Let me be the one who stays. This time, I swear it. Reader… this time, I stay.”
His thumb brushed the back of my hand, a silent promise. The air between us was still heavy—still thick with history and hurt. But something else shimmered there too. Something fragile. Something terrifying. Something that might be hope.
I didn’t pull away. Not yet. But I didn’t reach for him either.
The silence stretched, no longer filled with accusations. Just the quiet, aching possibility of a future I wasn’t sure I could survive— but maybe, just maybe, wanted to try.
