Cast: Jordyn Jones as Ryn
Home didn't feel so sweet.
After several weeks in the hospital, Chrissy was cleared to go home.
Tristan could tell that she was really trying to tough it out, but she was in a lot of pain, and the woods were now terrifying. She quit smoking for good but he was sure that wasn't due to the health risks.
She talked a lot about college and getting out of Louisiana.
They managed to fight over anything and everything. Tristan slept more on the couch than he did in the bed, and she made it that way so he couldn't see her have nightmares.
The winter was predictably mild. He watched relationships bloom around him. Ryn and Jasper were the talk of the pack. Jas had finally started getting out, as long as he had his little witch by his side and those black leather gloves. Ryland and Alex were a regular Bonnie and Clyde, wreaking havoc wherever they went and making huge amounts of cash off bounties. They were good. Almost as good as Talin and his demon crew.
Unless Chris was in heat, they didn't have sex. If she didn't need anything, they didn't talk. She was sleepwalking through life and he didn't know how to stop it. One of them was always mad at the other one for some reason.
She'd gotten into every college she applied to. Rather than some big Ivy League, she chose a smaller college in North Carolina, up in the mountains.
Before long, it was time to pack. She had to live in on-campus housing, but he got an apartment near the school to be close by.
War was threatening between the pureblood and the turned - everywhere. The vampires were struggling as well. The feud between lykans and vampires died out eons ago, but they were in no shape to help one another. Witches were being stretched thin between both sides, and no one ever knew what game the demons were playing at. They always had their own agenda. Fae were siding with turned lykans, and ghouls were feeding on the tension and heightening it. No agenda, just chaos for the sake of it. Haphazard attacks on everyone and anyone in the fray.
You could even tell mortals were beginning to feel it, but that came out in a vastly different way. There was no specific cause for turmoil, just animosity for anything you don't stand for.
It was like someone was holding a match to the earth, waiting for it to go up in the flames, and no one wanted to get a bucket of water.
"You're quiet." Chrissy remarked.
He realized how tense he must've looked, and slackened his grip on the steering wheel. "I don't want to fight." Tristan muttered. "So I'm not talking." He looked over at her briefly. She was rubbing his pendant over her bottom lip and staring out the window.
Tristan sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just all we do is fight. We're never not fighting. You refuse to let me in."
She rolled her eyes. "You know enough about me."
"It's not that. Knowing one another comes with time. You don't trust me. At all."
That comment she didn't deny.
*
It was cold here, a lot more than Louisiana. Chrissy loved it. There were so many real minds, friends to be made, stories to be shared, and things to learn. It was only September, and yet she found a perfect little spot where she fit in.
She got the worst news of her life on a Saturday.
More high than drunk, but certainly both, and having crazy theoretical conversations with friends.
Micah called her. The boys had been missing her lately, so she excused herself to go stand outside and answer the call. It was late, which was curious.
"Psycho bitch speaking." She spoke into the phone, leaning up against the building.
There was a long silence.
"Micah?"
"Something happened, Chris."
"No." She said immediately on hearing his raw, stricken voice. "No, don't give me this call. Not this one. Not today."
"Luke..."
"I'm not sober enough for this, Micah. Don't do it to me." Her body started to shake. "This is not that call. Don't make it that call."
"Goddamnit, Chris!" He suddenly shouted. "Let me talk! I need to get this out before I black out myself."
She said nothing.
"He answered a call, alone, and... They found him a couple hours later. Whoever... knew what he was. The bullet was silver and he-he didn't make it."
Numb, Chrissy let her hand fall from her ear, hanging up on the call.
She slowly walked back inside, where her demeanor was met with a sudden stop in conversation.
Theresa, a friend, came up to her first. "Hey, you okay?"
Chrissy blinked a few times. "My brother, Luke, was shot." She said, voice lifeless. "He's a cop. He's dead."
No one really knew how to respond, Theresa tried to give Chrissy a hug, but she drew away.
"Someone's gotta call Tristan. I... I can't drive. He needs to pick me up."
Everyone was confused. "Okay... Tristan?" Theresa asked. "Who is that?"
Chrissy made a conscious decision not to say mate, but her brain couldn't find boyfriend. "My husband." She whispered.
More shocked silence.
Chrissy passed her phone to Theresa, and collapsed in a chair.
Time and existence meant nothing for the next twenty minutes. It was all... TV static. She couldn't speak anymore, just nodded as her friends spoke to her.
At some point, Tristan's face came into her view. Chrissy was virtually catatonic. He gently pulled her from the chair, guiding her outside. She numbly walked to his car with him, and then it was time to get out. She was so... Lost in her own head. Could no longer even interpret the passage of time. Tristan's arm didn't even feel real as she clung to it. She thought about how atoms could never truly touch another, how they were mostly empty space, how she could never actually touch anything at an atomic level.
It felt so alone. So empty.
A very transcending feeling of separation.
It was so cold here.
September here was so cold.
Louisiana never got this cold.
Why did she leave?
She clung onto Tristan even harder, hoping he was warm, hoping that suddenly he'd feel more real.
They were sitting on the couch in his apartment. He hadn't said a word.
Reality felt more like a dream than the insides of her mind did. Chrissy was aware he was slowly running his hand across her shoulders, but couldn't feel it.
Tristan pulled her up again. She thought maybe he said something about her shivering, but the dream didn't want to hand over reality.
She didn't want to.
Chrissy really didn't want to let go of his arm. It felt like a tether. If she let go, she'd just fall.
"Can I have my hand back?" He asked quietly, politely. "Just for a second."
She looked up at him, unblinking, and shook her head.
"Can you put your hand on my shoulder?"
Slowly, she lessened her grip on his wrist and slid it up to his shoulder. Still tethered. Not falling.
He said shivering. Chrissy thought that she might be shivering. Her body felt tense, and she watched her arm as it shook.
He worked off her shirt and bra until it hung off the arm connected to the hand she refused to take off him. Tristan offered her his other wrist, which she took, testing the tether for a moment before letting go of his shoulder so he could slide off the fabric.
The room was warming.
She turned her head and looked in the mirror.
Tears. Her face was covered in tears. She hadn't even felt them.
Chrissy soon felt something that truly couldn't be a dream. Heat. Pure heat. Water. It matted down her hair, ran over her shoulders, splashed on her feet.
She watched it trickle in rivulets down Tristan's chest.
Chrissy glanced at her hand, confirming she was still tethered.
Yes. Her hand was in his.
"You've stopped shaking so hard. Feel better?"
His voice was still distant, but yes. Reality felt closer. Chrissy nodded.
Without being pulled toward him, or asked, Chrissy rested her head just above his heart, wound her arms around his neck.
The thought of atoms never being able to touch one another slipped away. Cells could. She could feel the warmth of the water, the hair on the nape of his neck, his chest rising and falling.
Yes. Real. He was real. His rough hands were resting at the small of her back.
She felt bad for every time she'd left him alone in the bed after he'd asked her to stay.
I denied him this? I... Why do I torture him so?
Chrissy didn't know how long they had stood like that, but sooner or later she was brave enough to let go of the tether, knowing she couldn't fall. She didn't.
The water stopped hitting her skin. Tristan replaced it with a towel.
"Did you wash my hair?" She asked, oh-so quietly. Her usually loud voice was hiding. She was eyeing a bubble still on her hand.
"I did." He replied, using a second towel to wrap around his hips. He found a third and used it to gently wring her soaking wet hair. "I think you... Went into shock. Are you better now?"
'Are you okay' sounded like such a stupid question in his mind.
"I think so." She mumbled, then blinked a few times. "How... How long have we been home?"
Because home is where Tristan is... Her mind mocked.
"Not long." He started running a comb through her locks. "Maybe half an hour. You started shivering. You didn't seem to want to let me go so I thought a shower would be good. I know that calms you down."
It does.
"I can't believe I said that." She whispered.
Tristan held her face. "Say what, Chrissy?"
"I told him I hope he dies alone. And... He did." Chrissy became completely disgusted with herself. "How... how could I do that? He's my brother, my flesh and blood... He just wanted what was best for me."
"Hey, hey," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her, "he loved you. So much. And I know that you loved him. You guys would've made up. He broke your heart, your trust. You're allowed to be mad. So don't go down that path."
Chrissy felt like she didn't deserve his comfort, or his placations. She pushed at his chest, new tears streaming down her face.
Tristan only held on tighter.
She started screaming at him, clawing at him, calling the man nasty, horrible, venomous things. She wanted to scream at herself. She deserved these things. She deserved all the pain, the venom, the agony.
Someone should just break every bone in my body and never set it back.
She got Tristan but what she really deserved was someone like her father.
Tristan wouldn't let her hurt herself. She wanted to break her hand, slam her head into the wall. I deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it... I'm such a horrible person...
Let me go. Let me do it. Please. Hit me. Hit me like I've hit you. Hurt me like I hurt you. Like I hurt him.
But Tristan wouldn't let her go. Not after she bruised his chest, or clawed at his arms, or slammed her head under his chin.
Finally, she had no more energy left. Her throat was raw from screaming, her wrists hurt from where he had grabbed them, trying desperately to keep her from hurting herself.
Now worn out, Tristan was able to take her into the other room, dress her in an oversized t-shirt.
She sat down on his bed, now feeling nothing.
"Do you want me to sleep with you or on the couch?" He asked.
The rational part of her brain spoke rather than the emotional. If he wasn't next to her, she'd most likely find a way to do... something. "With you." She murmured.
The bed was made. Of course. Mr. Perfectionist. So he pulled the sheets back, and she slid under them. Tristan was right behind her, and she bundled up in the crook of his arm, listening to his heart beat.
She was quiet, but couldn't sleep. Tristan was slowly running his hand up and down her back. He could sense something was still itching at her.
"What do you need, Chrissy?" He asked softly.
She shook her head, pulled in closer to his side.
He had an inkling.
She was away from her pack, her family. He reacted very similarly when his father died. The feeling of distance, aloneness... was undefeatable.
Tristan pulled up her chin. "Do you need me?" He asked softly.
There was something about intimacy that allowed it to float away for a while.
Blinking away tears, she nodded.
He slowly shifted, settling his hips between hers. She wound her arms around his neck, feeling the tips of his damp hair.
"I'm always here for you," Tristan murmured, placing a featherlight kiss to the corner of her lips. "Whenever you need me." She looked so vulnerable, once again her age. Chrissy always looked and acted much older than she was. She had a certain wiseness to her. Or maybe she'd just seen too much.
It was the soft side of her that he tried so hard to uncover. A morning smile or a doe-in-the-headlights look after something particular was said. The part of her apologized to inanimate objects for bumping into them, or the flush she wore whenever he'd mention something naughty.
Chrissy's eyes were still a little red and puffy from crying, her wet hair clung to her shoulders and chest. As always, she was unforgivingly gorgeous. His own personal Mona Lisa to gaze at every day.
Tristan pulled up the oversized shirt over her breasts. She parted her knees for his hips, tucking her hands over her chest.
Her thighs tensed around his waist. He didn't stop until they shook, every breath of hers had a pitch, and a red flush had bloomed over her face, neck, and chest.
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Should I have written the whole ~scene~ or nah? I tried really hard to make it a tearjerkingly sweet moment and I felt like more might've defeated the purpose. 🧐