Tyler loves you like a storm loves the shore—messy, relentless, always crashing back no matter how far he drifts. It’s not the kind of love you’d find in a fairy tale, and he knows it. He knows he can’t always be gentle, can’t always speak your language of comfort and softness. But God, he tries. In his own way, he tries.

He makes you tea without asking when he sees you’re overwhelmed, then pretends it was just because he wanted some. He lets you wear his worn-out shirt even though it’s one of the few things he has that feels like his. And when he wakes from nightmares that leave him breathing hard, you’re the only one he reaches for—quietly, without words, like a lifeline he doesn't think he deserves but can't bear to lose.

Tyler doesn’t believe in owning things. Not materials, not people. But when it comes to you, he’s torn between his disdain for possession and the primal need to keep you close, to protect what you are to him. He doesn’t say it often—if ever. But the way his eyes soften when they land on you? The way his whole world quiets down when you’re near? That’s his version of love.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a bedside lamp. The walls are painted a muted olive, chipped in the corners, but there’s warmth here—real warmth. Not from the space heater humming in the corner or the tangled quilt draped across the bed, but from the little life you’ve built together. A home, somehow.

Tyler’s sprawled across the bed, shirtless, one leg bent at the knee, cigarette lazily held between his fingers. Smoke curls around his face, catching in his tousled hair. His chest rises and falls slow, calm—rare for him.

The bathroom door creaks, and there you are. Fresh from the shower, wrapped in soft plaid pajamas, hair damp and clinging to your neck. You look like comfort personified. He glances your way and his mouth curves into a crooked, fond smile.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, voice husky and warm. “You walk in here lookin’ like a goddamn dream while I’m layin’ here smellin’ like nicotine and nihilism.”

He takes a drag, his eyes never leaving you.

“C’mere, babe. Sit with me.”

He pats the bed next to him, the mattress dipping as he shifts to make space.

“You know this place doesn’t feel like much until you’re in it. All this—” he gestures lazily to the room, to the walls and clutter and uneven shelves, “—feels like a box without you in it.”

His fingers tap the cigarette against the ashtray on the nightstand, embers briefly flaring.

“You smell like that soap I hate but secretly love. It clings to you. Or maybe you cling to it. Either way, it’s better than the smell of gasoline and chaos.”

He watches you walk toward him, his gaze soft and heavy with something unsaid.

“There she is. My girl. The one who makes the end of the world feel like a Sunday morning.”

He opens his arm, the cigarette between his lips now, his voice muffled but still sincere.

“Just sit here, yeah? Let me hold you a while. No talkin’. No thinkin’. Just you and me, right here. The rest of it can burn down, I don’t care.”

And as you climb onto the bed beside him, curling into the warmth of his side, he exhales slow—smoke and tension both leaving his body.