Fragile Hearts

☆ Running on empty

"No, you're not." His tone wasn't sharp—but it wasn't soft either. It was something in between. Something real.

"I just—dizzy. I stood up too fast."

"You haven't eaten today."

"I—"

He looked at me like he knew I was about to lie.

Like he'd heard it all before.

"Ezra," he said. "You skipped your shake this morning. You ate maybe two bites at lunch. I've been watching you all day."

The silence stretched.

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't even meet his eyes.

Dylan sighed through his nose. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to me. "Come on."

He helped me sit up slowly, then stood and offered a hand. I hesitated.

"You can lean on me. Seriously. It's fine."

I took his hand.

His grip was solid. Warm.

He helped me to the couch and sat next to me, close but not overwhelming.

"You're pale," he said quietly. "And freezing."

"I'm always cold," I mumbled.

"That's not a flex, Ez."

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Two minutes later, he stood up and disappeared into the kitchen.

When he came back, he had one of the shakes.

Cold. Sealed. Vanilla.

He sat again. Popped the cap. Shook it gently.

Then handed it to me.

I stared at it.

My hands didn't move.

"I can't," I whispered.

"Why?"

"It's—" I looked away. "I'm not even hungry."

"You passed out, Ezra."

I didn't answer.

Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked tired, but not annoyed. Just—concerned.

Not the performative kind, either. Not pity.

Real concern.

"You don't have to be hungry to need something," he said. "Your body's asking for help. You don't have to wait until it's screaming."

I clutched the shake but didn't open it.

He watched me for another second.

Then: "Okay," he said softly. "If you won't eat for yourself, then fine."

He turned slightly, eyes meeting mine.

"You eat for me. Right now."

The air left my lungs.

I couldn't look at him.

"You don't get to fade away on us," he said. "Not now."

I opened the shake.

Took one sip.

My hands were shaking.

Dylan didn't push.

He just sat there, waiting.

Watching.

When I stopped drinking after three sips and tried to hand it back, he didn't take it.

"You need more than that."

"I'm trying," I choked out.

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm here."

Another sip. Another pause.

Halfway through, I dropped my head into my hand. My chest felt too tight.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"I know."

Tears stung my eyes. I didn't wipe them.

He didn't say anything else.

Just scooted a little closer, leaned his shoulder lightly into mine. Not enough to trap me—just enough to say I'm here.

I drank the rest.

When the shake was gone, I set the bottle down with a quiet clunk.

My breath was shallow.

My hands were still trembling.

And Dylan...

He didn't ask for anything.

Didn't ask me to explain.

Didn't tell me it would be okay.

He just reached over. Gently took the bottle. Set it aside.

Then shifted.

And—very slowly—wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in.

I didn't resist.

I didn't have the energy to.

And maybe, deep down, I didn't want to.

"You scared the hell out of me," he said into my hair. His voice cracked just slightly.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just... don't do that again, okay?"

I nodded.

He squeezed me a little tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, I let someone hold me without flinching.

Just for a little while.