Page 47 of Endo
“I should walk home,” he says, voice low and emotionless. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I don’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence linger between us. Then I turn to him, my chest tight. “No, you’re not walking home,” I say, my tone firm, but not harsh. There’s no way in hell I’m letting him head off alone, to drown in whatever dark thoughts he’s got buried inside. “You’re not going back to your apartment, alone, where we both know you’re just going to drink yourself to sleep, or worse. Not tonight, Reign. You’re staying here tonight.”
He finally turns to me, looking at me like I’m crazy. There’s a hesitation in his gaze, like he’s trying to weigh his options. But I see the tiredness, the heaviness in his eyes, and I’m not backing down.
“No,” he says again, but there’s less conviction in his voice this time. He opens the door, but I move before he can step out.
I get out of the car and stand in front of him. “Reign, enough is enough. You’re not going home to deal with this by yourself. I’m not fucking letting you. You’ve been here for me—remember? I’m letting you help me. Well guess what, now, it’syour turn. You’re going to let me do the same for you. So get over yourself and come inside.”
I can see it then—the tension in his shoulders, the conflict in his eyes. He’s embarrassed. Ashamed. I can see it all in the way he moves, how his chest rises and falls like he’s about to say something, but the words keep getting caught in his throat.
He looks down at his hands for a moment, then back at me. “I’m fine,” he mutters, but it’s clear he’s not. It’s the kind of lie you tell yourself when you’ve got no other choice.
“No, you’re not fine,” I insist, my voice softer now, but still firm. “And after what you’ve been through, no one expects you to be. But you’re not leaving. You’re staying here tonight. End of story.”
He looks at me like I’m pushing him too hard, like I’m asking for something he’s not ready to give. And maybe I am, but he doesn’t get a choice in this. Not tonight. Not when I can see the cracks starting to show.
He opens his mouth again, but this time it’s more of a defeated sigh than a protest. “Fine,” he says quietly, the word a reluctant surrender. “I’ll stay. But I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
We walk away from the car in silence, the night air tense between us. I unlock the door, pushing it open and stepping inside first, flipping on the light. He follows, his boots heavy against the floor as the door clicks shut behind him.
The space feels smaller with him in it, the energy in the air shifting. Reign doesn’t say anything, just glances around once before heading to the couch and sinking onto it. He sits in the same spot he used to claim when he, Cruz, and Sayshen would hang out, their voices loud and full of trash talk as they battled it out on the PlayStation. Seeing him there now is a punch to the gut and a balm all at once.
It’s painful—God, it’s painful. But it’s also healing, in a weird way. Like the ghost of those better days is flickering to life in the quiet. Back when we weren’t so broken. When Reign’s laugh could fill a room, Cruz’s grin was contagious, and everything didn’t feel so impossibly heavy.
Before Reign and I became whatever we are now. Before the crash, the fights, the endless spiral of grief and guilt that tore us all apart. Back when it was just the three of them, and I was on the sidelines, happier than I ever realized.
I move toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. From where I stand, I can see him better now, slouched back like he’s trying to relax, but it’s not working. Reign doesn’t do relaxed anymore. Not really anyway.
The white muscle shirt he’s wearing stretches tight over his chest, the fabric clinging to every defined line. His tattoos stand out even more under the soft light of the room, the dark ink winding along his arms, over the hard muscle, and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. They creep up his neck too, sharp lines and curves that give him that restless, dangerous edge.
His jaw is set tight, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. Even sitting still, he looks like he’s wound too tight, like he’s one wrong word away from snapping.
I take a breath and force myself to stop staring. My fingers tighten around the glass as I walk back over to him. “Here,” I say, holding it out. He glances up, and for a split second, I catch something in his eyes—something raw, unguarded. Then it’s gone, replaced by that quiet, unreadable expression he’s been wearing since we left the track.
“I knew you were hurting,” I say softly, leaning against the edge of the couch. “I mean, it was obvious. But I didn’t realize it was this bad, Reign. You’re carrying all this weight, and you don’t have to. You don’t have to do it on your own.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps his gaze locked on the floor, his jaw tight. His chest rises and falls in that slow, deliberate way, like he’s barely holding it together.
“You’ve gotta let someone in,” I continue, my tone more casual now, trying to meet him where he’s at. “You’ve gotta letmein.”
I don’t expect him to open up right away, not with how stubborn he is, but I can’t ignore the way his shoulders tense more, like my words are chipping at something he’s not ready to show me.
And then he speaks, his voice rough but quieter than I expected. “You’re one to talk,” he says, his tone sharper than I wanted to hear. “You’ve shut everyone out too. Everyone but him.”
The jab about Revel stings, but it’s not surprising. I almost expected him to throw that back at me. Still, I wasn’t ready for how hard it would hit.
I push past it, ignoring the way my chest tightens. He’s deflecting, and I know it. But at least he’s saying something. That’s more than I thought I’d get tonight.
I want to snap at him, to tell him how wrong he is, how he doesn’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. How he has no idea what it’s like to fight every damn day just to keep your head above water. But I don’t. Instead, the frustration churns inside me, twisting into something raw.
“You think you’ve got me figured out?” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. My heart pounds as the words tumble out. “You think just because I don’t wear my shit on my sleeve like you do, I’m fine? Newsflash, Reign—just because I don’t show it doesn’t mean I’m not drowning too.”
He starts to say something, but I don’t let him. The anger, the tension between us—it’s thick, suffocating.
“Are you pissed that I let someone in, Reign? Or is it because it wasn’t you?” I ask, my voice calm but the question biting. “You think it was easy letting Revel in? It wasn’t. But at least with him, I’m not constantly reminded of everything I lost. Of all the memories with Cruz—the laughter, the hangouts, the fucking emptiness now that he’s gone. At least with Revel, I don’t have to carry that every damn day.”
I take a breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s hard. “I’m here, Reign. I’m trying to be here for you. But all you do is push me away, like you’re too fucking proud to admit you need someone. You think that makes you strong? It doesn’t. It just makes you alone.”
