CHAPTER 37
I left him before he could answer.
Because sometimes, going away after the vulnerability is the strongest thing you can do.
And I needed him to feel the space I left.
I needed him to know I trusted him to leave me intact.
And trust myself to come back.
"Why do you punch everything but yourself?"
My voice barely above a whisper. It suspended between us like a dare.
Tony didn't answer right away. He sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his bedroom, elbows on knees, bruised knuckles cradled in his hands as if they were something breakable instead of something to destroy.
It was late. The sky outside the window was blue-black, full of the quiet that only occurs when the world's too tired to scream anymore.
We hadn't said a lot since I got there. Just coexisted in each other's presence. Like, proximity alone could mellow out everything that had transpired.
And maybe it had.
Because this time, he didn't attempt to feign he hadn't heard.
\---
He lifted his head slowly. His face calm, but his jaw clenched like it was fighting every muscle that did not care to stay silent.
Then, quietly—
"I did. Once."
I blinked. "What?"
He unbent one fist and held it out, palm facing upwards. A small scar at the base of his thumb. Small, but too precise to be an accident.
"I was sixteen. My coach benched me for losing my temper at a ref. I got home and busted my fist in the mirror in our bathroom upstairs."
I winced.
"My father didn't yell. Didn't even blink. Just looked at the blood and said, 'If you're going to be a liability, at least do it off-camera.'"
The room became heavier with air.
I sat beside him, wrapping my legs in to emulate his. "He sent you to therapy after the fight, didn't he?"
Tony nodded curtly. "It wasn't about me. It was about optics. He called it 'brand repair.'"
"And you stopped going?"
His laugh was dry. "Yeah. First few sessions, I did. I wanted to talk about the anger. The blackouts. The zinging in my head. But then Dad spoke with the therapist privately after the third session and said, 'Let's keep him sharp, not soft.'"
"Sharp," I echoed.
"As a knife."
\---
We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. Just being.
I didn't feel stalked for once. I didn't feel fragile.
I just felt. there. With him.
And maybe that was more terrifying than anything.
Because if he could be this way—calm, honest, exposed—what did that do to the version of him I thought I knew?
What did that do to the version of me who swore I'd never get this close?
\---
"I don't know how to be normal," he said suddenly. "I just know how to fight. How to control."
I glared at him. "And hurt?"
His jaw slammed shut again. "Yeah. That too."
"Am I that kind of thing?" I spat. "Something to manipulate?"
He didn't answer. Just turned to regard me fully. The look on his face—God—it killed me. Not because it was mean. But because it wasn't.
He looked like a kid who'd never slept in years. Like all the bad choices he'd ever made were haunting him in the quiet.
"I don't want you to be afraid of me," he said.
"I'm not."
A pause.
"I'm afraid of what I'll enable in you."
That hurt more than I meant for it to. But it was true.
He dropped his head, eyes in his lap. "I don't want to be that guy anymore."
"Do you want to be better?" I asked.
The question hung there. For a long time. Heavy with weight.
He didn't answer.
Just nodded.
And when he did, it was as if something shattered within him.
His lips parted, as if he were going to speak more—but what escaped was a harsh breath, and then silence. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes.
I put my hand on his shoulder—softly.
That was enough.
He made a sound—choked, angry, embarrassed.
And then he rocked forward, folding in on himself like a house collapsing.
I didn't budge.
Didn't blink.
I simply remained.
\---
"People think that anger is strength," he said after a very long time. "It's not. It's fear with armor."
My throat tightened.
"I've been scared for a long time, Mac. Of what I'm going to be. Of what I've already done. Of what you see when you look at me."
I whispered very quietly, "I see someone trying."
He looked up.
"And for what it's worth?" I said to him. "I've punched myself a few times. Not with fists. But it still left bruises."
That was the first time he smiled.
Not into a smirk.
But into understanding.
We sat in silence again. This time, it didn't hurt.
And then, hesitantly, he leaned forward and reached across to the drawer beside him and pulled out something. A small leather notebook, corners creased, edges frayed.
He offered it to me.
I took it.
"What's that?" I said.
"My old therapy notebook. From those first few sessions. Before I stopped going."
I looked at him.
He shrugged. "You don't need to read it. Just… I want you to know I tried. Even before you."
I hugged the notebook to myself. "Thanks."
\---
Later, when I was exiting his room, I didn't feel like a girl escaping her archenemy.
I was a vessel for someone else's story.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because stories change people.
And I was starting to think if mine already had changed us.
"You ever stop pretending?"
The words spilled out before I could think otherwise.
Tony raised an eyebrow from across the room. He was sitting on the floor again, spine braced against the wall, legs stretched out, one knee bent lazily. He was barefoot, shirt slightly rumpled, like he hadn’t planned to see anyone tonight—especially not me.
His hoodie hung loose off my shoulders. It was too big, smelled like cedar and ink, and felt like the softest thing I’d worn all week.
He looked at me as if he was weighing whether or not to provide me with an honest response.
And then he said, "Only when I'm around you."
That stilled me.
We hung there for a moment in silence. Just breathing in the silence.
\---
I don't know why I showed him my weaknesses.
Maybe it was because the way that he was gazing at me. Not because he was trying to see through me. But because he already did.
Or maybe it was because I couldn't keep holding it. The secrets. The shame. The pieces of me I kept boxed up like films that spoil—useless, unedited, poison if left out too long to view.