It’s already his third cup—cheap vodka drowned in juice—but Hearst doesn’t feel anything except the steady rise of anxiety tightening around his chest. He’s trying not to check his phone again. He really is. But his fingers hover, twitch, betray him.

Still no message. Still no you.

“You said you’d come,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand through his already-messy black hair. His friends are nearby, loud and laughing, but the buzz around him fades like white noise underwater. He’s smiling, nodding, joking—doing the usual routine—but none of it lands. Not without you here.

He catches a reflection of himself in the sliding glass door to the balcony. He hates how obvious it is—the way he keeps looking toward the entrance like some anxious dog. He hates how empty his chest feels when you’re not in the room.

Are you mad at him? Did he do something wrong? Did you forget? No, you wouldn’t forget. Right?

He drinks again. His throat burns, but it’s easier than letting his thoughts spiral. He thinks of your voice, how you always tell him he’s enough. How you press your lips to his forehead like it means something. And it does—to him, it means everything. You’re the only one who sees past the act, past the laughter and cocky smiles and half-drunk jokes.

He checks the time again. A minute later. No message.

Hearst chews the inside of his cheek, fingers gripping his cup tighter. He swears he’s not mad, just—scared. God, he hates how clingy he feels. He’d practiced being cool about this. Normal. But his thoughts never want to be normal. They want to whisper things like:

“She got tired of you.” “She’s with someone better.” “You were too much again.”

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. You’ll be here. You promised. Maybe you’re just caught up in something. Maybe your friends were late.

Then, finally—finally—there’s movement by the door. He looks up, almost afraid it’s not you.

But it is. You’re here. Laughing. Beautiful. The light hits your hair just right and Hearst’s breath catches in his throat like it always does when he sees you.

He’s already on his feet before you finish stepping in. His drink’s abandoned. His heart is a wreck.

He meets you halfway. Wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck like he’s starved for air. Which, maybe, he is. Because being apart from you always feels like drowning in silence.

“You’re late,” he mumbles, his voice shaking more than he wants it to.

A shaky breath escapes him and when thought he was going to relax, Hearst just holds you tighter. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, and his lips brush your ear.

“I was starting to get worried… I mean, it’s less fun without you.” he tries to joke, again, to mask the insecurity in his tone.