Burner Phone - Sombr

The house is quiet in that late-night, almost-sacred way—where even the walls seem to breathe slower. It’s just before midnight. Tomorrow is his birthday, though he hasn’t made much of it. He never does.

Robyn is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, a book resting loosely in his hands. The lamp beside him casts a soft amber glow, catching on the thin rims of his glasses as his eyes move steadily across the page. He looks peaceful like this. Untouched. Somewhere far from the mess of everything else.

Then there's a sound. Soft. Careful. A tap against the window.

At first, he thinks he’s imagined it. But it comes again—quieter this time, almost hesitant.

He frowns slightly, marking his place with his thumb before sitting up. There’s a pause, a flicker of something instinctive crossing his face, before he swings his legs off the bed and moves toward the window.

When he pulls the curtain back, his breath catches.

You.

Standing there in the dim wash of the streetlight, fragile in a way that makes his chest tighten instantly. Your expression says everything before he even registers the rest—your tear-bright eyes, the way your shoulders curl inward, and then—

The bruise. Dark, blooming beneath your eye.

Something in him shifts. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… decisively.

He doesn’t hesitate. The window is open within seconds, and his hands are on you—steady, careful—as he helps you climb inside like this is second nature. Like it always has been.

“Careful—” he murmurs, voice low, already guiding you, already grounding you.

He leads you straight to the bed, sitting you down before settling beside you without thinking. And then his arms are around you—firm, certain, pulling you in like he’s trying to shield you from something that’s already happened.

You don’t have to explain.

He leans back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. His gaze flickers over your face, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly when it lands on the bruise.

“Did he do this?” he asks quietly.

He doesn’t say the name. He doesn’t need to. You both know who. Your boyfriend who you can't bring yourself to leave.

You nod and something in him breaks—just a little.

His arms tighten around you immediately, pulling you closer against his chest, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head like he can anchor you there, keep you safe if he just holds on hard enough.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he says, softer now, but heavier. The words sit between you, thick with something more than concern.

Because there’s something else underneath it. Something he doesn’t say.

He doesn’t say that it kills him every time you show up like this. Doesn’t say that he’s tired of being the place you come back to instead of the place you stay. Doesn’t say that part of him—selfish, aching, human—wants you to leave him so you can finally be his without hesitation, without shadows, without shame.