Tristan

I used to think rock bottom had a floor. That it was something you could crash into, break against, and from there, maybe, you could crawl your way back up.

But this?

This wasn't rock bottom.

This was a freefall.

A slow, endless descent where there was no ground to brace against, no moment of impact to shatter and rebuild from. Just a pit with no end, where the air thinned and the light faded, and the only thing louder than the silence was the sound of your heartbeat.

I stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned.

Tristan Larsen, lost in a stranger's house, a ghost of the man he used to be, clinging to a life that felt less his own.

I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness might be kinder. But it wasn't. Because there, behind my lids, I saw her.

Sienna.

Laughing. Smiling. Happy.

Then I saw him.

Xavier.

The name alone curdled in my gut, sour and burning. I curled onto my side, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I saw stars, but it didn't matter. I couldn't unsee it—that picture. The way he looked at her, the way she looked back at him.

I wanted to believe it wasn't real. That I'd made it all up, let my mind twist things into something worse than they were. But I hadn't.

I'd seen it.

He was there, sitting where I should have been. Filling the spaces I'd left empty. And Sienna, God, Sienna, she leaned into him like she used to lean into me. Like she was safe there. Like she trusted him.

Like she loved him.

I shot upright, my elbows digging into my knees as I gripped my head, desperate to claw the image out, to tear it from my mind before it could burrow deeper.

But it was already there.

Rooted.

Rotting.

And the worst part?

I couldn't stop wondering if he'd be better.

Would he give them the stability I couldn't? The security I'd never had myself and wasn't sure I knew how to create?

He was everything I wasn't. Calm. Certain. The kind of man who probably knew how to build cribs and swaddle blankets and rock a baby back to sleep at 3 a.m. without falling apart.

The kind of man who wouldn't run halfway across the world because the thought of being a father made his chest feel like it was caving in.

Would he do a better job?

I hated myself for even thinking it—hated how easily the doubt slipped in, how quickly it sank its claws into the cracks I'd been pretending weren't there.

Because the truth?

The truth was I didn't know.

I didn't know if she still loved me.

I didn't know if I deserved her love anymore.

And maybe that was worse than losing her—knowing I might have already lost her and being too afraid to find out for sure.

I dragged my hands down my face, my skin burning from the pressure. My chest felt too tight, like my ribs had been bound with wire, twisting tighter every time I thought about her. About him. About the life they could build in the ruins of the one I'd let crumble.

Would it be easier if I just let it happen?

If I let her go?

The thought hit me harder than I expected, knocking the breath from my lungs. But wasn't that what she wanted? Wasn't that what I saw in her eyes when she looked at him—freedom?

Freedom from me.

I gripped the edge of the bed, my knuckles going white.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to break something, to tear through this goddamn house until there was nothing left but splinters and dust.

But there was no anger.

Just this unbearable, suffocating ache that wouldn't let go.

I bent forward, pressing my forehead to my knees as my shoulders shook.

Why did my life have to be so complicated?

I needed Stefan.

He always knew what to say and how to reach me in the places I didn't let anyone else touch. A laugh, a stupid joke, and then some profound truth that made me believe—if only for a moment—that I wasn't alone.

Where was my phone?

I scanned the room, eyes dragging over the unfamiliar furniture. Nothing.

Where the hell was it?

Hauling in a deep breath, I forced myself off the bed. The sudden movement made my head spin. I quickly braced myself against the edge of the bed, waiting for the world to settle. When it finally did, I shuffled toward the door, my legs stiff and unsteady like I'd forgotten how to use them.

Outside, the hallway stretched before me, vast and eerily quiet, lined with paintings and expensive fixtures that reeked of old money. I wandered forward, my footsteps echoing faintly against the hardwood. The dim lighting made the corridor stretch endlessly in both directions, shadows pooling in the corners. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't even know what I was looking for. But I kept walking.

And then, I heard it.

Laughter.

Soft. Warm.

It drifted through the air, so startlingly alive in the dead silence that it stopped me in my tracks.

For a second, I held my breath, listening. And then, against my better judgment, I followed it.

The sound led me to a partially open door at the end of the hall. I hesitated at the threshold, my fingers grazing the frame.

A dining room.

I should've turned around. I should've.

But I was already peeking inside.

The large space was bathed in golden light, a sharp contrast to the cold sterility I'd been drowning in. At the head of the table sat Killian, holding a little girl—Rayna, if I remembered right—on his lap. She was squirming like her life depended on it, pushing his hand away as he tried, and failed, to feed her a forkful of broccoli.

"Come on, shortcake," he coaxed, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "You need these if you want to grow big and strong."

Her nose scrunched in protest. "I don't wanna be big and strong! I wanna stay little!"

Killian huffed a laugh—the kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his sharp edges. The kind I wouldn't have believed he was capable of if I hadn't heard it with my own ears.

Beside him, Hope sat at the table, her hand resting on her swollen belly like she couldn't stop touching it. A boy, older than Rayna, leaned over and poked her stomach with his fork. Hope groaned. He giggled.

"Ryan," Killian warned, though his tone held zero heat. "Stop it."

"The baby likes it," he argued, giving her belly another prod.

Hope ruffled his hair, smiling softly. "It's fine, babe. I'm okay."

The boy grinned, staring up at her. "It's a boy, right? I just know it."

"No, it's a girl!" Rayna piped up from Killian's arms, twisting around to glare at him.

The boy shot her a smug look. "Boy."

"Girl!" Rayna shouted.

The two children began bickering, their voices growing louder with each passing second. A part of me wanted to turn away and leave them to their chaos, but for a reason I didn't understand, I couldn't.

"Boy!" Ryan yelled, pointing his fork at her.

"Girl!" Rayna countered.

"Boy!"

"Girl!"

"Boy!"

"Girl!"

Killian sighed, rubbing his temples like a man who'd already fought this battle a hundred times and lost every single one.

"Enough," he muttered.

But they didn't hear him—or chose not to.

"Boy!"

"Girl!"

"It's a boy!"

"No. Girl!"

"Boy!"

"Girl!"

"I said ENOUGH!" Killian snapped, cutting through the argument like a thunderclap.

Rayna flinched, startled. Silence. Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes turned glassy as she looked up at him. "Daddy..."

Killian's entire demeanor shifted. One second he was the exasperated disciplinarian, and the next he was pure mush, gathering her close and smoothing her hair. "Hey, hey, no tears, shortcake. I didn't mean to yell, okay? Daddy didn't mean to scare you."

She sniffled into his shirt. "Ryan's mean."

Ryan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Killian shot him a look that had him sinking back into his chair.

Rayna's small arms tightened around his neck. "I want a girl, Daddy," she murmured. "Ryan's a stinker. He breaks my Barbies, and he won't let me braid his hair or join my tea parties."

Killian pressed a kiss to her temple. "It's going to be a girl, sweetheart. And if it's not, you can braid my hair and paint my nails, alright? And I'll join all your tea parties too, okay?"

Rayna pulled back just enough to look at him, her tears forgotten. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"Pink glitter nail polish?"

"Pink glitter nail polish."

"With sparkles?"

Killian groaned. "Rayna—"

"With sparkles?" she demanded, her tiny hands framing his cheeks and squeezing just enough to make his lips pucker.

He sighed, defeated. "With sparkles."

Rayna squealed and hugged him tightly, planting a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. "You're the best, Daddy!"

Killian laughed again, hugging her tighter.

And I—

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart twisting and splintering in ways I wasn't ready for.

It shouldn't have hit me so hard—something so simple. A little girl's laughter. A father's love. The effortless way they fit together, like pieces of a puzzle that had never known what it meant to be broken.

But it did.

The ache in my chest spread like wildfire, licking at the edges of wounds I hadn't even realized were still raw.

I swallowed hard and took a step back. Because if I didn't, I might've done something reckless, something stupid, like walk inside.

—❀—

The room was quiet again, save for the muffled hum of the air ventilator.

My eyes drifted to the window. It was dark outside, the city beyond the glass a blur of quiet lights and distant sounds. Prague. I'd come here searching for escape, but all the city had done was crack me open, exposing everything I'd tried to bury.

A soft knock broke the silence.

"Tristan?" Hope's voice slipped through the door, tentative.

I didn't move, didn't answer.

The door creaked open anyway, and her footsteps padded in quietly. Turning slightly, I saw her carrying a tray of food.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said, smiling softly as she set the tray on the table near the bed.

I looked at the food, then back at her. "I'm not," I muttered, my voice hoarse from disuse.

She didn't budge. Her hands lingered on the tray like she wasn't ready to walk away just yet. "I made it special," she said, quieter this time. "Please, just try a little."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the fight drained out of me before I could even start. I was too damn tired.

"Fine," The word fell flat, but it was enough.

Her shoulders sagged in relief, and the faintest smile ghosted her lips. "Thank you. I know you'll love it."

"Do you know where my phone is?"

She straightened slightly, brushing her hands on the front of her dress. "Killian has it. He's been keeping it safe for you. I'll have him bring it to you."

I nodded, saying nothing.

"I'll leave you to it, then,"

Another silent nod.

She walked to the door. When she reached it, she paused, her hand resting on the knob. She lingered there a moment longer, hovering like she wanted to say something else. But whatever it was stayed locked behind her lips because she suddenly turned the handle and disappeared, leaving me alone again.

I stared at the tray. The faint aroma of the food drifted up. I didn't want to eat, but she had gone through the trouble. I lifted the lid. Not bad. I picked up the fork. The first bite caught me off guard. It tasted good. Simple but rich, like the kind of meal someone made when they loved you enough to make sure you ate. And that realization sank like lead in my stomach.

I kept eating, even though each bite only reminded me of how empty I still felt.

I was halfway through when the door burst open without warning.

Killian strolled in like he owned the place—which, in actuality, he did. He had a presence that seemed to fill the room, whether I wanted it to or not.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I bit.

"You're still alive," he taunted, completely unfazed. "That's all I needed to check."

He tossed a pile of clothes onto the nightstand, my phone and wallet balanced on top. "You've got about a million missed calls," he said, like it was an inconvenience to him personally. "Might want to deal with those before people start assuming you're dead."

I didn't move. Didn't even look at the phone.

Killian cocked his head. "Or don't. Pretty sure there are some people who'd be fine with that outcome."

I clenched my jaw. "And what are you, my babysitter now?"

He snorted. "Babysitters get paid. I'm just the poor bastard stuck making sure you don't drown in self-pity."

I glared at him. He grinned wider. "We're having a bonfire tonight. You can join us if you feel like pretending to be human again, or you can stay here and keep sulking like the miserable prick I hear people say you are. Your call."

I felt my pulse quicken at his words. My fists clenched. "And why the hell would I want to sit around a fire with you?"

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "But you might find it's better than sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."

A spike of anger rose. I dropped my fork with a sharp clatter. "You don't know a damn thing about me, Fobster."

His gaze hardened. "I might not know much about you, Larsen, but I sure as hell know what rock bottom looks like because I've been there myself. You're not going to fix anything by shutting yourself away and pretending the world doesn't exist. You think this is the end? It's not. It's a choice. And if you don't get your head out of your ass soon, you'll lose it."

The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. But I didn't let him see it. I kept my gaze steady, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his words cut.

Killian stepped back toward the door, pausing just long enough to let the silence stretch.

"Bonfire starts in an hour," he said over his shoulder. "Don't worry—I won't save you a seat."

And then he was gone, leaving the room heavy with his words.

I sank back into the chair, staring at the phone on the nightstand. A million missed calls. A million people who probably thought I'd disappeared for good.

Would it be better if I just did?

I leaned back, letting my head fall against the chair, and closed my eyes.

I hate my life.