Chapter 41: Cry in the Dark (Caleb POV)

Chapter 41: Cry in the Dark (Caleb POV)

 I am behind the wheel of my truck, tearing down Monday streets, rain slamming the windshield hard. My hands grip tight, knuckles pale, and my chest is pounding, fast and loud, Ryan's text, Help, burning in my brain. It came minutes ago, one word, then nothing, and my stomach is twisting, cold and sick, pushing me faster. Diane's deal with Miles, condos, her blank nod, stings bad, but Ryan's cry cuts deeper, pulling me to him. My wipers slap quick, barely clearing the blur, and my foot is heavy, engine growling loud, tires splashing wet pavement.
His building is close, run-down, bricks chipped, windows dark in the storm. I skid into the lot, truck jolting hard, and jump out, boots splashing deep, rain soaking my jacket fast. My breath is short, chest tight, and I run up the stairs, metal rattling under me, loud in the quiet. The hall is grim, paint peeling, lights flickering weak, and I reach his door, banging hard, fist stinging. "Ryan!" I yell, voice rough, pounding again, wood shaking. Nothing, just silence, and my hands shake, slamming once more, desperate.
I grab the knob, twist, and it gives, unlocked, creaking slow. My heart drops, and I step in, air hitting me thick, booze, sweat, sour and heavy. The place is wrecked, floor littered with empty cans, rolling soft, a chair broken by the couch, legs snapped clean. My boots crunch something, glass, maybe, and I see him, Ryan, passed out flat, sprawled across the cushions, face bruised dark from a fall. My throat closes, breath stuck, and I stumble over, fast, dropping beside him, hands shaking bad.
"Ryan," I say, loud, grabbing his shoulders, shaking firm. His shirt is torn, damp with spilled whiskey, and his skin is cold, pale under my fingers, bruise swelling purple on his cheek. The air is sour, cans scattered, a bottle tipped on the floor, puddle dark, and my chest hurts, sharp, pulling him up slow. "Come on, wake up," I say, voice cracking, shaking him harder. His head flops, then lifts, slow, eyes cracking open, red and lost.
"Caleb?" he slurs, voice thick, barely there, hand twitching toward mine. His fingers brush me, weak, slipping off, and he blinks, slow, foggy, trying to see me. My hands tremble, holding him up, and my stomach twists, seeing him like this, trashed, broken, alone too long. The room is dark, window cracked, rain dripping in, and my throat is tight, keeping him steady, needing him back.
"It is me," I say, quiet, voice shaky, gripping his arm. His face is rough, lip split, bruise spreading, and my hands shake more, brushing his hair back, damp and messy. "What happened, man?" I ask, loud, looking around, cans glinting, table shoved, papers crumpled by the wall. My heart is racing, and the air stinks, defeat, thick and wet, wrapping us tight.
"Collectors," he mutters, slow, head dropping back, eyes half-shut. "Took stuff, TV, whatever, left this." His voice fades, slurring worse, and he waves a hand, limp, at the wreck. My chest burns, hot and fast, and I pull him closer, arm around him, feeling him lean heavy against me. My hands shake, steadying him, and I see it, debt from The Static, fines hitting him hard, taking what little he had left.
I stand, slow, hauling him up with me, boots slipping a bit on the wet floor. "Get up," I say, quiet, voice rough, guiding him to sit right. He is heavy, sagging, and my legs tremble, propping him on the couch, firm. The air is cold, rain sneaking in, chilling my skin, and my jacket is soaked, heavy on my back. My throat is thick, and I sit next to him, close, shoulder brushing his, needing him here, alive with me.
The room is still, rain tapping steady, cans quiet, his breath slow and jagged beside me. My hands rest on my thighs, shaky, and I look at him, eyes barely open, face pale, bruised bad. "You scared me," I say, low, voice cracking. "That text, thought you were gone." My chest is heavy, and I rub my face, rough, feeling the stubble, waiting for him to say something.
"Didn't mean it," he mumbles, quiet, head lolling. "Just, too much." His hands shake, resting loose, and my stomach sinks, cold, hearing him break. The Static is gone, ours, his dad's, and we are broke, both of us, but we are here, face-to-face, not alone now. My throat is tight, and I nod, slow, not pushing, just sitting, feeling him next to me.
We stay there, quiet, busted but together, rain drumming outside. My hands clench, unclench, and my chest is tight, relief mixing with hurt, glad he is breathing, wrecked but mine again. The floor is littered, glass shining, cans tossed, and the air is sour, thick with booze and loss. My head leans back, slow, couch creaking soft, and I feel it, down, out, but not split, not yet. His arm brushes mine, warm in the cold, and my hands shake, staying still, holding this moment.
Then a knock slams the door, hard, loud, shaking the walls. My head jerks up, heart jumping, and a voice growls, rough and low, "Time is up, Delgado. Open it." My chest freezes, cold washing fast, and I know it, Torres, back for more, his growl cutting the silence. Ryan tenses, slow, eyes wide, and my hands clench, fists ready, staring at the door, waiting.