"Molotovs, Meltdowns, and Mayhem: The Glorious Art of Emotional Warfare and Self-Destruction"

I try to cancel four times.

Apparently, my post-nuclear-August message to Nick —
August's a scam. I'm in bed till Sunday. Enter and die.
— didn't land.

I'm not sad. I'm furious. Terrified that this is it.

Hating myself for putting myself in this situation. For thinking I could ask, want, actually get what I wanted.

Not catching I deserved every bit of what he did. I see it now.

Asking him to talk? It felt weird, but because it was the only time I've actually expected that question to be answered with words. I've asked it countless times, all too aware it was code for hooking up. I'm really an idiot to think this would, could, be anything different.

I hate that everything screams my own MO, and I didn't clock any of it. The fact that he used it against me kind of makes me proud but mostly just nauseous.

I alternate between being truly sick to my stomach and wanting to destroy the wall.

Thinking about that he did all of it for the praise. That he thinks I'm some charity project. Get her heart ticking again. Then leave when he realizes his work is done.

I've never hated anything more in my entire life.

Nick replies with a photo of Bo's mournful eyes beside a to-go coffee cup and the words:
"Sneakers. Now."

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing outside the hotel, facing the Sagrada fucking Família, wearing a men's white button-down barely passing as a dress, my ancient silver New Balances, and sunglasses that scream fuck off while hopefully hiding the crime scene that is my eyes.

Nick is already leaning against a suspiciously shiny rental car, sunglasses on, arms crossed like a villain with excellent posture.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" he greets.

Before I can answer, Bo launches across the pavement and hugs me with enough force to rupture internal organs.

"This is sneakers," I shoot back at Nick, deadpan. "And we're going to a church—give it a rest."

Nick shakes his head, all mockery. "No, no. This isn't church. This is: fucked a corporate giant and stole his shirt just to spite the institution of holy matrimony."

I laugh, half-breathless. "Say another word and I'll skip the church and go back to fucking said giant. Your call."

He grins, opens the car door with dramatic flair, and waves me in. "Get in, loser."

I freeze. "What?"

Bo climbs into the front seat, humming like this is all very normal.

Nick tilts his sunglasses. "We're going to the Miró Museum. Change of plans."

"Fucking thrilled - but what happened to the church tour?"

"Oh, we're still getting spiritual," he says, shoving me lightly toward the open door. "Now get in, Magdalena."

I don't have time to resist before he physically pushes me into the backseat—where I land face-to-face with August. Cap pulled down. Hands folded. Entirely too relaxed.

Our knees knock.

Our glares collide.

Immediate, blistering silence.

Nick hops into the driver's seat, cheerful as a goddamn daisy, and locks the doors with an ominous click.

August looks at me like I just violated a restraining order. I look at him like he's a virus I thought I'd vaccinated against.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" I hiss.

August doesn't even flinch. "Was told you weren't coming."

Nick shrugs, confessing innocently from the driver's seat. "I may have... adjusted the truth."

"Adjusted?" I snap.

"I promised August a quiet gallery and minimal small talk," Nick says, pulling on his seatbelt. "I promised Bo a roadtrip."

Bo nods, pleased. "Both promises are valid."

"Believe me," August mutters, not looking at me, "if I'd known, I'd have picked the trunk."

"Still an option," I snap.

Then, as we pull away from the hotel, he says—too brightly—
"So! The Miró Museum is just the first stop. Then we're doing a quick hike."

"A what?"

August and I say it in perfect sync, like a cursed duet.

Nick keeps driving, unfazed. "Bo loves a scenic overlook. There's a hike. It's romantic."

Bo turns from the front seat, chipper: "The road trip moodboard was abstract male nudes, cold Cokes, Nick's legs in shorts, and tasteful PDA — all wrapped in a romantic escape from up-close inspections of wild-life mosaics spewing casual hate crimes."

"Which meant not touring a church with thirty American tourists named Kyle," Nick adds.

My mouth drops open. "That was the alternative?"

They reply with silence, but any hint of injustice at this point sets me off,

"I fucking knew you'd be the one to kill me," I say, gesturing wildly. "I just thought it'd be a little more on-brand. Poisoned champagne. Or a yacht-based cardiac arrest mid post-orgasm glow. Not a death march through pine-scented hell sponsored by fucking Patagonia."

Nick sighs like I've aged him five years.
"You're allergic to joy."

August doesn't even look up from the seat beside me. His voice cuts in — low, cold — like he's performing my autopsy mid-ride.
"On-brand? You'd swan-dive off an ivory tower because a seagull flew too close. Or drown mid-spiral because the lifeguard had the audacity to reach for your hand."

I snap my head toward him, my whole body turning.
"Still breathing? With that saint complex puffing up your lungs like a bad balloon animal? I thought you'd suffocate on your own need to be needed."

His mouth twitches — not quite a smirk. Restraint.
"Barely," he says. "My back's still fucked from hauling your trust issues through customs like I'm your emotional bellhop. And for the record? Lifetime Achievement for Most Red Flags in a Carry-On — that's all you."

I laugh — sharp, humorless.
"You came to fight, Sir Fix-a-Lot? Great. I cleared my afternoon for emotional arson. Let's torch the last of our dignity while we're at it."

"You weren't hauling me — you were orbiting. Waiting. Hoping I'd crack just enough so you could swoop in, slap a gold star on your chest and say, 'Look, I fixed her!'"

That makes him turn. Really turn. The backseat crackles.
His posture says let's go — fully uncaring that Bo and Nick are two feet away.
His voice, low and tight:
"Foreign concept, I know. It's not fixing — it's called trying to be there."

"Oh, I saw you there. Trying to fuck me as soon as I got too beige," I snap.
My voice spikes, sharp and ugly. Hands slicing the air like I could physically cut through him.
"Sorry I stopped sobbing in the thunderstorm and needing you to twirl my hair. I know how you love your mental breakdowns Oscar-nominated."

His tone sharpens. Pressurized. About to burst.
He recoils — just a twitch. But then he fires back.

"Yeah? Pretend you're a beige fuck-doll, get treated like one."
His words crack like a whip.
"You showed up in costume. Smiling like a brochure. Said all the right lines:
'Look, I'm healed. I'm safe now. You can love me, right?'"

His laugh is scathing — bone-deep, joyless.
"You think that's trust? Love? It's not — it's PR."

"You fucking asshole."
I want to punch through Nick's seat. Hit anything.
"You think I faked trying? That I sat there rehearsing how to pretend to love you in a way that you'd buy? You fucking narcissistic piece of shit."

"No, fuck you."
Now he's full volume.
"You treat connection like an ambush. You booby-trap every door, light the tower on fire, then throw Molotovs at anyone who has the nerve to knock."

"Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't send you front row tickets to my freakshow."
I laugh, jagged.
"God forbid I didn't fucking bleed in the shape you wanted. I was trying, August. That was me giving what I fucking had. But it wasn't loud enough, messy enough, dramatic enough — so you slapped a label on it and called it fake."

He stares — eyes blazing. But not surprised. Like he's been waiting for this version of me to show up.
"No," he growls, "that wasn't you trying. That was you curating. That was your fucking Instagrammable mental health moment. A rehearsed TED Talk on healing with a ring light and nothing underneath."

He barks out a laugh — brutal, too close. The kind you hear right before someone burns down a building by accident.
"You told me you loved me," he says, voice dropping to something lethal.
"After ghosting me. After weeks of silence. After showing up like some beige-wrapped Hallmark knockoff and tossing out an 'I love you' like it was a party favor I should feel fucking grateful to get. What was I supposed to do — clap?"

He sneers.
"You should be fucking grateful I didn't play along and settled for a ghost of who you really are."

I stare at him. My blood's pounding so loud I can barely hear myself speak.
"You know what?"
My voice is ice, then fire.
"You said I didn't trust you — and fuck, you were right. And thank god I didn't. Because if I'd let you all the way in, you would've dissected me for sport just to see what color I bled."

"Impossible! You never even tried to let me in!" he explodes.
"You built a fucking fortress out of trauma and clever comebacks and expected me to thank you for the fucking wall of thorns."

"I invited you in!"
I'm shouting now. Can't stop.
"I gave you more than I've ever given anyone — but it wasn't theatrical enough for you, so you called it fake. Sorry I didn't sob in your lap and beg you to save me like one of your fucking porn-grade therapy fantasies."

He barks a laugh — unhinged, furious.
"You didn't invite me in. You handed me a fucking visitor pass and said, 'Please enjoy the curated ruins of who I pretend to be.' And when I tried to stay past closing, you locked the doors."

"I was trying to protect you!"
The words rip out of me — too fast, too loud, like I've lost control of my own mouth.

He doesn't let a beat pass.
"From what? Your feelings? Or the truth — that you don't think anyone can love you unless you fix yourself first?"

It's a clean hit.
For half a second, all I can do is stare at him. Rage and shame slugging it out behind my ribs.
"Fuck you."
My voice cracks, but I don't care.
"Don't you dare pretend like I'm not doing the world a fucking favor by keeping this under lock. You have no idea what it's like to live in a body that feels like a loaded weapon. You don't know the first fucking thing about any of it."

"I tried, Frederika!"
His voice rips through the car like a shockwave.
"I fucking showed up. I let you gut me with your silence and your jokes and your cold little goodbyes, and I still came back. And you stood there acting like it was some fucking tragedy that I didn't give a standing ovation when you said three words you didn't even mean."

"Trauma tourism is not a good look on you," I hiss.
"Just quit it already."

He flinches — then laughs. Dry. Empty.
"It's called honest fucking communication. But you'd still rather fuck anything with a pulse than answer how your day was."

"Oh, my day's stunning, thanks. Beige as ever, with just a hint of repressed murder."

"Are you really that daft or just purposely not getting it?" he hisses.
"Beige-you doesn't exist. A shell is incapable of showing love — maybe, just maybe, the fucking human underneath might be able to."

"I didn't want to drag you into the full shitshow!" I shout.
"I was bleaching the walls before you came over, August. Excuse me, for not letting you see the crime scene I live in."

"I didn't need the fucking walls cleaned!" he yells back.
"I needed you! Not the beige version with bleached trauma and a fucking user manual!"

I can't breathe.
I want to crawl out of my skin.
"You think I wanted to be beige?" I scream.
"I was trying to be safe! I was trying to be something you could stand."

His eyes go wide — not with surprise, but with rage.
"I never fucking asked you to be safe! I asked you to be real. But you're so fucking scared of being seen that you'd rather hand over a paper doll and pretend it's affection."

"Because I ruin things, August!"
It bursts out — cracked, splintered — from somewhere I didn't know was still alive.
"Because I scare the people I love. I was trying — god, I was fucking trying — to not be a burden. To give you something better than that."

August stares at me, chest heaving. His voice, when it comes, is loud. Raw.
"I never fucking asked you to be better."

I cut him off. Yelling, without really knowing why.
"Don't act so fucking naive. If you saw me scream, shut down, disappear — beg to be touched and push people away all in the same breath — you'd try to save me. That's who you are."

"I DON'T WANT TO SAVE YOU!" he roars.
"I just wanted a fucking chance to get to know you. For you to trust me enough to let me try."

I laugh once — dry, almost wheezing. Voice too high-strung as I go,
"You don't want me, August. You want to be the exception. The guy who stuck around. The one who gets a medal for not running when the crazy hit."

His jaw tightens. I see it — the shift, the crack. I go in for the last nail in the coffin,
"You stayed again and again so you could call it care — just admit it was really just ego in a fucking hero costume."

He's red now. Shaking.
And then — finally —

"I WAS JUST TRYING TO FUCKING LOVE YOU!"

Silence slams into us.
Even the radio cuts out — like it's too scared to comment.

Nick practically screams, chipper as hellfire:

"WHO'S READY FOR SOME GODDAMN ABSTRACT NUDES AND OVERPRICED POSTCARDS?"

Bo raises a hand like he's signaling a helicopter.
Nick takes a wrong turn out of sheer panic.

But in the backseat?
We're still burning.
Still not touching.
Still not done.

***

We enter the museum like we weren't just verbally eviscerating each other in the backseat of a rental car.

We step through the heavy glass doors into the Miró Museum, and immediately the noise of the city falls away.

White walls rise high around us, punctuated by bursts of color—abstract paintings that seem to float in the quiet space like islands in a sea of silence.

Inside, the air is cool and still, carrying the faint scent of polished stone and old paper.

The smooth concrete floors gleam under soft, diffused lighting that feels almost reverent, as if the art here demands a hushed respect.

Visitors move slowly, their footsteps muffled, voices lowered to whispers.

It feels wrong to be here. Like the rage, fumes, tears and hurt I hold might spill all over it. But I can't go, retreat to the car, miss out on Miró because he got under my skin. He's strolling somewhere behind me, easy, relaxing, like anything in the car was just.. a minor inconvenience in his day.

So, I stay.

Take in the sculptures dotting in between the open galleries, smooth curves and jagged angles frozen mid-motion, casting long shadows that stretch across the space.

Look, inspect, while taking a million long deep breaths. Just for the rage to somewhat match the vibes of the place. So I can actually think instead of merely acting out.

I feel a stab when the word "Molotovs" flash through my mind. It stings, just a tiny part of my mind tells me I actually threw a couple of those in his direction.

I try to push on, redirect my focus, find the head and the bird in a sculpture named Head & Bird.

Another stab, this time a gut punch. About me rather wanting to fuck someone random, than answer how my day was. I snort, realizing how I'd much rather answer him and then fuck him. I shake my head, like it will somehow not make this my screw up.

I make eye contact with an older man walking past me, he just gives me a disapproving look - like I'm never going to be able to find the head nor the bird. And I don't really disagree with him.

I move on, an attempt to find new, others, anything that can calm my mind.

I sit down, coincidentally in front of a big bold painting - Seated woman. It's all smooth, flowing curves that balance strength and vulnerability with graceful simplicity. I look at the page in the museum catalogue, Her abstracted silhouette is supposed to invite quiet contemplation, embodying both timelessness and a gentle, resilient presence.

I've always wanted to see it up close, but now, actually in her presence she sounds like a cunt. All I can hear is "Why the fuck couldn't you see he was just trying to love you?"

My entire body now feels limp, the rage seems to have sewed out with too many deep breaths. There's just this knot she's poking at. Like I somehow knew I fucked up. I know, I somehow was at fault. But not entirely, why exactly.

I get distracted by the hum of not so muted conversations, the faint scrape of shoes on tile, the distant drip of a fountain— I move, before she assaults me again.

I give the sculptures another shot, and find one of his weirder ones. A true oddling, called Perssonage. A whimsical sculpture of abstract shapes and bold colors, capturing playful energy and surreal simplicity in a lively, almost childlike form.

'I read the description to blur out any thoughts of my own. I read it three times just to make sure it's not my subconscious fucking with me,

Evoking the psychological concept of the persona, or social mask, the artist said, "Wildness is the flip side to my character - I'm well aware. Naturally, when I'm with people, I can't be brutal in speaking and I put on, one might say, a kind of beige mask."

I almost spit at the bronze sculpture. It's the first time for me to wish a dead surrealist died all over again and not join me for my dream dinner-party.

I gulp, try to bore holes into the sculpture before I turn on my heel, still deciding if this is a learning moment or not.

I walk slowly, and I'm more aware of my movements than ever before. Here, every breath feels measured, every movement deliberate, as if the building itself is holding its breath before I decide.

But I can't tense up like the walls ask of me. So, I sit down by The navigator's hope III.

It bursts with swirling colors and dynamic shapes, supposedly evoking the tension between uncertainty and possibility. Its restless energy feels like a compass spinning in the chaos of a storm.

I just see two dots. Polar opposites of the canvas. Before I even name one of them August in my head, I feel the jab. Like my heart is giving me hell for trying to accept a world where we're not overlapping dots.

I whisper-yell, "Allright, I'll fucking fix it, no need to be a dick about it!"

A passerby coughs in a way that clearly meant she heard my plea and wanted me to get in line.

I hate it. I hate I'm now the person being insufferable at a museum.

I honestly don't have a fucking idea of what I'm doing. But that's what he wanted, right?

I find him by a row of tall windows, gazing out at the sunlit, weathered benches and gleaming paths of the small garden nestled just beyond the museum's walls.

"I'm sorry for calling you a trauma tourist." I blurt out.

"Did the fight scare you back to beige, or did the real one decide to show up?" He answer dryly,

"You're fucking impossible!" I hiss, too quiet to what I really wanted.

My throat closes. The soft shuffle of other tourists nearby makes it worse — like we're fighting with knives made of breath.

He steps even closer, voice low and lethal.
"Fine, tell me to leave then."

I don't. I can't.

A guard eyes us from across the hall like we might deface the surrealist nudes with our mutual psychosis.

So August grabs my wrist — not rough, just deliberate — and hauls me through the nearest door.

Into the garden.

Where the walls stop listening.

***

The air outside hits like a slap.
Warm. Open. Too bright.

The garden is nearly empty — just cracked tile paths and sun-drunk bushes wilting in the heat. The kind of place built for quiet reflection, not emotional warfare.

August lets go of my wrist like it burned him.

I spin around, arms already crossed, heart clawing at my ribs.
"Did you just drag me out of a fucking museum for another lecture on fake me?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares — jaw tight, eyes dark, chest rising like he's holding back a scream or a kiss or both.

So I keep going. Wild. Sharp.  

"Let me guess. You're gonna give me the speech now. The one where I'm pretending, don't know what trust, moloto—"

"Stop."

One word. Flat. It lands like a gunshot in my throat.

I do.

Because something about the way he's looking at me makes it hard to breathe. Like he's holding the weight of everything we never said — and trying not to fall apart under it.

He exhales — slow, uneven.

"Just tell me the truth. Are you more afraid of losing me..."
He steps closer.
"Or actually opening up to me?"

The question rips the air open.
Bare. Brutal. No mask left to wear.

I flinch. Visibly.

Because fuck him for being right. And fuck me for needing to answer. For making me want to answer it.

He watches my silence like it's a confession.

"I'm right here," he says — voice low but shaking. "I'm not running. I'm not flinching. I still want to be here."

My mouth opens — nothing comes out.

"I don't need the perfect version of you," he adds, softer. "I just need the honest one."

A bird screeches somewhere behind us. A fountain drips.

I want to run.
I want to scream.
I want to fall into him and never come up for air.

I don't think - my brain would need oxygen for that - instead, I ramble —
"How's this for honesty? I'm not scared. I'm terrified, August. I'm painfully aware that in spite of my own efforts I'll always need to rely on others to keep me sane. I'm terrified that if I don't bury some of the madness, some day no one will come back for me. And, if you see, you don't want to come."

My voice cracks — but I don't stop.
"And what really terrifies me? Is knowing that if you don't... I might not survive it. Not really, anyway. Because my rescue team and I? We barely got me through a fraction of what losing you will mean."

His gaze doesn't move.

But something inside him shifts — I can feel it.
Like gravity tilting back toward me.

"I never once thought you were a burden," he says, steady now.
"And you don't ever need to earn my presence. I'm here, Frederika. When you're ready to trust me. I just can't handle the pretending, lying, hiding from me,"

I inhale — jagged, aching.

"I don't think I even know how to start doing that," I whisper. Not cold. Not defensive. Just true.

He scratches the back of his head, takes a deep breath, then whispers,

"And I don't think I can fix that any less than you'll let me,"

The silence folds in on itself. Not empty. Not dead. Just waiting.

Waiting for one of us to finally fucking move.

Nick finds us in the garden like he's interrupting a duel with a picnic invitation.

"Okay, lovebirds," he says, chipper like a defibrillator. "I've let you scream in public for a solid twenty minutes. Can we get back in the car before Bo adopts a pigeon and names it after your emotional damage?"

Bo appears at his side, holding two melting cokes and looking aggressively unfazed.

"I named it Victorika," Bo deadpans. "It's unstable and full of rage."

Nick claps his hands like we're toddlers who need corralling.

"Scenic route, bitches. Let's channel that rage into a nature walk before one of you commits homicide with a museum brochure."

***

The car hums with a silence that feels borrowed. Like none of us want to break it in case it shatters.

No one says defeat. No one says anything.
Not go home, not stay, not sorry.

August sits against the window, arms crossed, not in defiance but as if holding himself in place. His eyes stay on the passing trees, like they might take the weight from him if he looks hard enough.

I curl into the other corner. Small. Tired. Watching the blur of green and shadow slide by. Like the trees might offer something — forgiveness, maybe. Or instructions.

No one talks.

Bo chews gum, each pop like a heartbeat in the quiet.
Nick hums something soft and too light, like he's pretending we're somewhere else. Somewhere easy.

Outside, the cliffs rise sudden and stark. Wild. Beautiful.
The kind of view that should feel sacred.

But in here, it feels like limbo. Like waiting for something to break.

I glance at August once.

He doesn't look back.
But his reflection in the glass looks just as wrecked as I feel.

***

We pull into a dusty clearing surrounded by trees. It smells like pine needles, sunscreen, and the faint promise of heatstroke.

Nick vaults out of the car like he's been cast in a Patagonia ad — grinning like nature personally texted him the invite.

The worst part? His extremely earnest attempt to explain the "hike" using a sun-faded trail map that clearly shows we're already near the top. He's also — I note, with exhausted disbelief — parked in the designated handicap spot like this is the VIP lounge of trailheads.

"Twenty minutes to the top," he announces, full of triumph, like we've trained for this.

And I do love Nick — I really do — for calling it a hike and never correcting himself. But I'll never admit it, because he still insisted I witness this in person.

Still, there's this quiet, crawling thing under my skin. A pressure. A knowing. That I'll have to sort myself out faster than I meant to.
Before the mountain gets there first.

Bo hands me three granola bars like it's some kind of peace offering. Or a contract I never agreed to sign.

"Eat," he says. "Your anger burns calories."

Bo and Nick charge ahead like they're auditioning for a nature documentary. Nick's already rattling off trail facts with way too much confidence. Bo's tossing out bursts of encouragement like we're climbing Everest instead of trudging up a dusty incline. It's a performance, but I let them have it.

August doesn't say a word. He doesn't walk beside me or trail behind — just hovers close, steady, unavoidable. I don't have to look to know he's there. I can feel him. The weight of his presence makes it harder to breathe, but not in a bad way. It's like my lungs don't trust the air to be safe around him, even if the rest of me desperately wants to.

And still, my brain chooses that moment — that fragile, shaky quiet — to wonder if he can see up my shirt-dress from behind. Which is insane. I'm unraveling, and all I can do is mentally short-circuit between sex and confession. Want and fear. The unbearable need to show him something real, and the equally unbearable terror that I won't survive it if I do.

My body fights it. Every time I try to form a thought, a sentence, even just his name in my head — something seizes up. My pulse spikes, like it's trying to evacuate my organs before they commit treason. My chest tightens, ribs locking up around whatever truth is trying to get out. There's this animal resistance in me — instinctive, ancient — pulling all my thoughts away from him like he's danger. Like love is danger. Like honesty is a threat I'm not built to survive.

And I hate it. Because I want to let him in. I want to reach back, grab his hand, say something that would let him know. That I see him. That I'm trying. That I trust him.

But my body won't do it. I can't find the words. Not even the first one.

Just that one thing — the sentence I say to myself every day, quietly, like a prayer made of barbed wire. My scarecrow. My worst-case scenario already lived. I've never said it out loud. I don't even know what would happen if I did.

My hands are shaking. I pretend it's the hike. I keep walking.

Because that, at least, I still know how to do.

The trees close in around us — brittle, sun-bleached, twisted like bones. The sky's too wide. The earth's too still.

And then it hits me. If he's really telling the truth—if all he fucking wants is honesty—then I need to give him the worst of it. No edits. No performance. I need to show him what loving me actually costs.

I stop walking. One breath. Like stepping off a cliff.

He halts a step behind, body drawn tight, but his eyes—God—his eyes are soft. Like he's looking at something fragile, already halfway broken.

"I need to tell you something," I say, and it doesn't even sound like me. My voice comes out small. Raw. Like a child who's run out of hiding places.

He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just watches, like the space between us is about to explode.

I look him dead in the eye. Body on full alert, and shaking from trying to shove it back down. Then I say it,

"Let me die," I whisper, not even looking at him. I take a deep breath before I can continue,

"I told the people I love that I only wanted to die. Begged them to let me go."

The words slice the air. Fragile and sharp, like glass dipped in blood. I feel them leave me, and I'm already hollow in their absence.

"I cursed them out for wanting to stop me," I choke. "I just didn't want to wake up again. Seeing them trying to save me broke me over and over again."

Only then do I look up at him. His face didn't flinch. No horror. No recoil. Just that same quiet, unbearable stillness—like he's hearing the aftershock of something sacred and brutal.

So I go on, "I thought if someone finally agreed, the pain would just shut off. And I wanted that more than anything."

I laugh. Short. Shattered.

"Didn't work. Still here."

When I look up again, it feels like I just tore open my ribs and only now realizing I was the one doing it.

I bite back a sniffle, and say, "So now you know. That's my line in the sand. That's what no one gets to see. So if this is your breaking point—leave now."

I wait.

For the retreat. The silence. The too-gentle exit.

But he doesn't step back. He steps forward.

His voice is wrecked velvet when it comes.

"To me," he says, "those words sound like I love you."

I blink. "What?"

"They sound like: I didn't know how else to be heard. I was in pain. I needed someone to come running."

I can't breathe.

"My worst fear isn't hearing this. Don't you get it?" he says. "It's that one day, you'll go quiet under the beige. That you'll disappear into that silence, and no one will be allowed to drag you back."

I shake my head. My whole body trembling, tears everywhere.

"I don't think you get it," I whisper. "If you stay, you'll see it. All of it. The parts that don't make it to daylight."

"You say it like I have a choice. I want you. I need all of you."

"You shouldn't." I'm breaking open. My voice barely holds.

"I don't want to need you," I snap. "But I do. And it makes me sick how much I'd miss you if you left."

He lifts his hands—doesn't touch me—just opens them like he's offering shelter.

"I'm the one who needs you," he says. "Those lines and everything else, but if that was your worst? Then give me all of it. Because it means you're still fucking fighting."

The sob rips out of me like something that's been waiting years to be born.

I crash into him—not soft, not cinematic—just fall. And he catches me like he always meant to.

His arms wrap around me. Solid. Steady. Unafraid.

I bury my face in his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, I let someone hold it all. His arms wrap around me, and I crash into him, fists curled in his shirt like I'll fall through the earth if I let go. I sob — not quietly, not politely. Just full-body, snotty, gut-hollowing grief finally breaking loose from where I've buried it for years.

He doesn't shush me. Doesn't try to fix it. He just holds me — steady, warm, unflinching. The kind of stillness that says more than any speech ever could.

When the storm slows — when the air stops hiccupping in my lungs and my body finally sags against his — he shifts slightly, just enough to rest his chin against the top of my head. Then he kisses me.

Not my mouth. Not a dramatic, cinematic kiss.

Just my forehead.

Soft. Solid. Devastating. Like he's telling the world, this is mine to protect. Not to rescue. Not to fix. Just to witness.

His hand comes up and gently wipes my cheek, thumb dragging a wet line just under my eye.

"Better?" he murmurs, like the question doesn't need an answer if I don't have one.

I let out a breath that might be a laugh. Might be the ghost of one. "Define 'better,'" I rasp.

"Not actively falling apart on my chest," he says, gently.

I lean back just enough to look at him. His face is still too close — serious in that August way, but also... softer. Less armor. More skin.

"You're not gonna run?" I ask, quieter now. Like I've already half-decided he will.

"No," he says simply. "But I am gonna sit with you and look at the fucking view."

It catches me off guard — how steady his voice is. How certain.

I snort, shaky. "Fucking romantic."

"Obviously."

I take his hand without thinking. He doesn't flinch, doesn't squeeze — just holds it like it's something we've always done.

We walk the last stretch in silence, gravel crunching underfoot, the heat clinging to our shoulders like it's trying to drag us down. The trail flattens into a dusty clearing dotted with a few warped benches and a splintered fence — the kind of spot made for awkward group photos and half-hearted water breaks.

Nick and Bo are already there, lounging on opposite ends of a bench like they've been waiting for us all day. They don't say anything. Don't need to. Just nod — slow, knowing — like this moment, whatever it is, was expected.

But off to the side, half-swallowed by the trees, there's a narrow wooden staircase tucked beneath low branches. I glance back once. He's still there — a pace behind, close enough to hear me breathe.

I take the steps. Two, three. At the top, just out of sight, there's a single weathered bench. Old wood, faded paint. The view stretches out like a held breath — layers of trees, soft hills, summer haze. Somewhere far below, the city hums like a secret no one's ready to tell.

We sit — shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. Heat rising between us, everything feeling too loud and too quiet all at once. We don't speak. Don't need to. The silence doesn't press. It just exists. Honest and unhurried.

A minute passes. Then another.

He's the one who breaks it.

"By the way," he says, mock-casual, "if you ever beg me to let you die, I'm going to throw you in a lake."

I turn my head, slow. "Wow, that's your master fix-it-plan? Drown the depressed girl?"

"It's symbolic," he replies dryly. "Ritual cleansing. Maybe throw in a baptism for your trust issues while we're at it."

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "God, I hate you."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You were literally sobbing into my sternum like a Victorian ghost five minutes ago."

I shove him. "Fuck off."

He just grins, shifts closer, and pulls me in with one arm — like it's nothing. Like it's easy. Like maybe this really is something we know how to do.

I raise an eyebrow. "Wait. This isn't where you confess that 'vulnerability porn' isn't your only kink and reveal a deep passion for PDA too?"

"Frederika," he says, laughing low in his chest, "just last night, you were the one guiding my hand way up over the stage of PDA."

"I don't recall hearing complaints."

"I was too fucking hard to come up with anything but touché."

My smile cracks wide. "Wow. And I didn't even have to cry."

He nudges me with his knee. "Shut up or you'll miss the view."

"I'm talking, I'm shutting up. It's both." I glance sideways at him. "Just saying — if there's anything you're still carrying, this might be the time to dig it out. I'm never doing another spiritual hike again, so might as well let the ghosts spea—"

I don't get to finish. His hand slides to my jaw and pulls me in.

Not crashing. Not claiming. Just finding. His mouth meets mine soft and steady — like he's checking if we're really here. Like he's thanking this moment for not slipping away.

It doesn't last long. Just the shape of a promise.

When we part, it's only by a breath. Noses brushing. Eyes too close to hide behind. I feel his smile before I see it — and for a second, I swear those stupid flickers of yellow are back.

"Wow," I breathe, lips still hovering, "so when you do it, it's totally fine to shut someone up with kissing?"

He grins, thumb skimming gently under my jaw.

"Only when you're being infuriating and mostly right."

And then — because the universe refuses to let us have one uninterrupted cinematic moment — Nick's voice rings out from below like a game show buzzer strapped to a megaphone.

"YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME, LOSERS! BEST WINGMAN ON THE GODDAMN CONTINENT."

"I'm pretty sure I fired you three times today," I shout back without even standing.

"Yeah, well, I'm union. You can't afford the severance package."

August exhales through a laugh, shaking his head. "Thank you, Nick... for your very committed hostage negotiation tactics."

Nick practically ambles into view, smirking like he's solved world peace and we're all just unfortunate extras. "Frederika, lover boy, got in the car to the museum by choice. I just provided narrative tension and artisanal chaos."

Bo, ever the calm in the storm, raises a Coke can in solemn salute. "Also, I'm ninety percent sure this counts as a double date. And possibly a human rights violation."

"Let's go," I mutter, pushing up from the bench, "before this turns into a group therapy potluck."