CHAPTER 97

CHAPTER 97
POV: Tyler

It always started the same way,  a small comment, a glance held too long, an argument that should’ve ended before it began. Ethan had a way of setting him off without even meaning to. 

The way he clenched his jaw when he was angry, the way his voice shook when he tried not to shout it drew something out of Tyler, something raw and electric. He didn’t know what to call it anymore.

That night, the rain had come down in sheets, drumming against the windows like it was trying to drown the silence inside. Ethan had been pacing the living room for almost an hour, muttering to himself, half talking, half unraveling.

Tyler watched from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” he said lightly.

Ethan spun on him. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“Whatever this is,” Ethan snapped, motioning toward him. “You always show up when things are bad. Like you want to make them worse.”

Tyler smiled faintly. “Maybe I just like the company.”

Ethan glared at him, rainlight catching the sharp edges of his face. “You like chaos. You like watching people fall apart.”

“Maybe,” Tyler said. “At least falling apart means you were whole once.”

That stopped Ethan for a second. His expression softened slightly confusion, cutting through the anger.

Tyler pushed off the doorway and took a few steps closer, slow and unhurried. “You really think I enjoy this? Watching you and Dominic tear into each other?”

“Don’t act like you care,” Ethan said, but his voice had lost its bite.

“Maybe I don’t,” Tyler said. “Maybe I just like the noise. The silence gets… loud.”

Ethan looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Tyler felt the weight of it. The exhaustion, the confusion, the loneliness that neither of them would admit out loud.

“I’m so tired,” Ethan said suddenly, almost to himself.

Tyler stopped a few feet away. “Of me?”

Ethan gave a hollow laugh. “Of everything. Of trying to be the one who fixes things. Of pretending I’m fine. Of being the good one.”

Something inside Tyler twisted. He hadn’t expected honesty, not like this.

He wanted to say something cruel, to throw up his walls before it got dangerous, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he said quietly, “Being good doesn’t mean being happy.”

Ethan looked at him then, really looked. There was something fragile in that gaze, something that made Tyler’s chest tighten.

“Yeah?” Ethan said softly. “And what are you, then? Happy?”

Tyler’s smile was small, tired. “No. Just honest about the damage.”

The room was too quiet. The storm outside sounded distant now, muffled by the weight of the moment pressing between them. Tyler took another step forward without thinking.

“Ethan,” he said, voice lower now. “You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Ethan’s breathing hitched. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t feel anything.”

Ethan froze. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air felt charged, as if the next breath could break it.

Tyler could see the conflict in his eyes, fear, anger, want, guilt all tangled into something that looked too much like recognition. 

Because that was the cruel truth, they saw themselves in each other, the parts Dominic didn’t understand, the pieces too sharp to love easily.

Tyler lifted a hand without thinking. Just a small gesture, a brush of his fingers against the air between them but Ethan reacted like he’d been burned.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a shout or a command. It was a plea. Tyler froze, his hand still halfway raised. The word hung there, thin and trembling.

“Don’t,” Ethan said again, softer this time. “I can’t….”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Tyler dropped his hand slowly, swallowing hard. “You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice rough. “You think this is easy for me?”

Ethan’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “You’re good at pretending it is.”

“I have to be,” Tyler said. “Because if I stop, I feel it. And I can’t afford to.”

He turned away before Ethan could see the expression breaking across his face. He hated the vulnerability, the shaking in his chest, the way it always ended with him reaching for something that slipped through his fingers.

“You should go,” Ethan said quietly.

Tyler laughed a dry, humorless sound. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me gone. Everything back to normal.”

“There’s no normal anymore,” Ethan said.

Tyler faced him again, and for once, there was no smirk, no armor. “You’re right,” he said. “There never was.”

They stood there,  two people who didn’t know whether they were enemies or reflections.

The stormlight flashed through the window, throwing their shadows against the wall, it was long nearly touching.

Ethan’s expression softened first. “Why do you do this?”

“Because it’s the only time you look at me like I exist,” Tyler said quietly. “Even if it’s through anger.”

Ethan closed his eyes for a moment, like he was trying to steady himself. “That’s not fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair.”

When he opened his eyes again, the space between them felt even smaller. There were no words left  just breathing, just silence, just the truth neither of them would say.

Tyler wanted to step closer. Just one step. He didn’t.

Instead, he said, almost to himself, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ethan’s voice trembled when he answered. “Then stop trying to save me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The storm outside broke again,  a flash of lightning, a low rumble of thunder. It felt like the world exhaling.

Tyler nodded once, slowly, the smallest of surrenders. “It’s already too late, isn’t it?”

Ethan didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

The silence said everything.

Tyler took a step back, forcing the air between them to stretch again. “You should get some rest.”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah.”

Tyler watched him go, watched the way his shoulders tensed as he passed, the way he didn’t look back. And for a fleeting second, Tyler thought about calling after him, about saying something real. Something honest.

He didn’t. When the door closed, Tyler stood alone in the quiet, the echo of Ethan’s voice still lingering in the air like a bruise.

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed under his breath low, tired, bitter. He’d wanted to feel seen, now he wished he hadn’t.