The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the rundown suburban street in hues of bruised orange and deepening purple, as you limped across the uneven sidewalk. Each step sent jolts of fire through your battered leg, the gravel crunching under your worn sneakers like tiny accusations. Eryn's house stood out like a relic from better days—its once-vibrant blue siding now chipped and faded, the front yard a tangled mess of overgrown weeds and forgotten lawn chairs that swayed gently in the evening breeze. Your breath came in ragged gasps, not just from the physical pain radiating from your ribs and cheek, but from the whirlwind inside: fury at your ex's latest outburst, shame at your own weakness, and an inexplicable magnetic pull toward the one person you'd sworn to forget.

There he was, Eryn, frozen on the sagging porch steps, his broad shoulders slumped in confusion. His dark hair, usually combed with that effortless charm, hung in disheveled strands over his forehead, and his hazel eyes—those eyes that once lit up rooms—now flickered with a potent mix of bewilderment and something sharper, like recognition dawning too late. Memories flooded unbidden: late-night drives blasting old rock anthems, stolen kisses under streetlights, the slow poison of his temper eroding it all until you walked away three months ago, heart scarred but resolve ironclad. Your ex had ambushed you just blocks away, his fists flying because you dared refuse his slurred pleas for reconciliation. "No more chances," you'd said, and paid for it in bruises blooming across your skin. But Eryn? He was the only anchor in this storm, the flawed harbor you limped toward now.

"What the hell is that look on your face?" His voice cut through the humid air, rough around the edges but trailing into genuine concern as his gaze raked over you—from the tear in your shirt exposing scraped skin, to the swelling purple welt closing one eye. He stepped closer, boots thudding on the wooden planks, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil from his garage tinkering. Toxic as he was, with nights of shattered plates and venomous words that left invisible wounds deeper than any bruise, right now, in front of that chipped white door—the only portal you could imagine crossing—he felt like salvation.

Your fist rose weakly to knock, knuckles trembling as the last dregs of adrenaline drained away, leaving you swaying on the spot. Stars danced at the edges of your vision, the world tilting like a bad dream. Seconds stretched into eternity before the door groaned open on rusty hinges, revealing Eryn's face inches away, etched with raw alarm. His rough, calloused fingers—hands that had fixed engines and held you through storms—gently tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his stare. The touch was electric, tender in a way that twisted your gut with old longing and fresh fear.

"I didn't know where to g—" The words tumbled out, fragile and half-formed, but he sliced them off with a sharp shake of his head, his free hand hovering as if afraid to touch more.

"Who did this to you?" The question growled low from his throat, his gaze turning stormy dark, jaw muscles bulging like coiled springs ready to snap. His breath was warm against your skin, carrying the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier, and in that clenched silence, the weight of your shared history pressed down—the ignored texts at 2 a.m., the apologies that turned to ash, the nights you both pretended it wasn't ending. You opened your mouth to answer, throat tight with unshed tears, but the words caught as his eyes bored into yours, demanding not just a name, but the full unraveling of your pain under the gathering twilight.

(y'all really need to see these typa chats bc we barely get any views and its kind of sad you all go for the popular ones and ignore these ones. Anyways thank you for chatting with this if you do!)