Welcome to the Neighbourhood

Chapter 12

AN: I'm sorry but this is wall to wall angst :(

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The next morning Dylan washed her face in the bathroom sink, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy from tears, dark bags under them from lack of sleep. She sighed as she scraped her hair back and threw the cold water on her face to try and reduce the redness of her cheeks.

She had tossed and turned all night as she grappled with what had happened with Bucky. She'd even woken up once reaching for him, thinking she could embrace him and tell him she was sorry in his ear and they'd hold each other again and all would be alright.

But he wasn't there of course.

She was still quietly seething about what he'd said too. His words had hurt her, really stinging because there was truth in his perception, an ugliness within her that she was ashamed he had unveiled. The reality was she was frightened to open herself up. It was daunting, risky. For their entire relationship she'd had a nagging pain in the back of her mind telling her to run, get out before you get hurt. Get out before it goes bad. It always goes bad. She'd ignored it because her feelings for Bucky had swept her along, always far louder than the quiet whisper of doubt. But here she was, in pain, heartbroken.

So maybe she had been right. Maybe she could've avoided all of this if she'd listened to her gut and amplified that whisper when the time was right. Maybe she should've cut the thread early on, keeping Bucky as her annoying neighbour she rolled her eyes at on the stairs and nothing more. Kept herself safe.

Just like Bucky said.

But then that meant she also would've missed out on all of the joy and happiness he'd given her. She couldn't lie to herself, the last few months had been some of the best of her life. She smiled wistfully.

There was truth in what she'd told him though, even if she'd communicated it in the worst possible way. As much as she loved how he cared for her, and she understood that his love language was acts of service and that he came from a time where women were perceived differently to how they are now, sometimes he could be overbearing – overstepping. She didn't need him to wrap her up in cotton wool and make decisions for her. She was her own person, she valued her independence and freedom. She knew she should've just told him that, but was annoyed that she needed to spell it out – he knew her history with Gabe, he knew it was a sore spot for her.

Still, all of this could have been avoided if she spoke to him properly. She chastised herself for getting caught up in her anger, for letting the remains of a bad day blow up the best relationship she'd ever had.

And she felt physically sick thinking of the jibe she'd made about his nightmares. It was uncalled for, vicious, cruel – she'd never said anything like that to anyone. And mainly it just wasn't true, she knew he wouldn't hurt her. She knew how hard he'd worked to grow and put his past behind him. He had PTSD, none of it was his fault – and she'd made him feel guilty for it.

She checked her phone. Nothing from him. They hadn't spoken since he'd stormed out. He probably hated her now. She winced, more tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.

The thing was, and she knew it deep in her heart, she loved him.

She hadn't told him but she did. She loved all of him. She loved how he made her laugh. How he could say so much with a single look. She loved how thoughtful he was, making her breakfast and fixing things that had broken. She loved that he curled up with her while he slept – his arm pulling her towards him as he sighed with contentment while he dozed. She loved the crinkles at the sides of his eyes when he laughed. She loved his grumpiness, scowling like the old man he was when something irritated him. She loved the devilish look in his eye when he was about to try and best her.