Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

41. Missing Stitch

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Come, my dear, and be a part of my home

Missing stitch and flowers on a headstone. . .

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I closed the door harder than expected, causing it to shut with a loud slam! that shook the walls and echoed through my apartment. I groaned angrily as I kicked off my work shoes and yanked my scrubs off my body, harshly jerking at my shirt when it caught itself on one of my horns. I balled up the dirty clothes and stomped to the laundry room to dump them in the old washer. I let out a heavy sigh and pulled my hair down, gathering my pajamas and heading to the bathroom.

After taking a long, very hot shower to decompress from the fucking awful shift I'd just had, I collapsed in bed and sprawled out on the mattress. My eyes followed a blade on the ceiling fan for a few minutes before I turned my head to look at my phone on the nightstand. I grabbed the phone and opened the messaging app, immediately tapping on one particular conversation.

It had been two weeks since Striker left, and just as he had said, there hadn't been a single message or call exchanged between us. The last text was from about three weeks ago, when I had told him to be careful on his way to come see me. He may not have been much of a fan of texting himself, but he would always check any messages I sent him. I bit my lip in thought, my empty stomach tying into a small knot.

One text couldn't hurt, right?

I typed out a message and hovered the tip of my thumb over the send button, staring at the message I'd just written: Hope you're doing okay. I miss you. Be safe.

One text wouldn't hurt, right? Just one, so he knew I was thinking about him. I'd had such a horrible couple of days, I just wanted to hear from him. Something — even a text with one or two words would do. That would be more than enough.

It'd be okay, right? I thought. Just one text. I know he doesn't really text, but just one from me would be fine, right? Just one. . .

"I can't have anybody findin' out about you."

"I'm not gonna let you be a target."

After a moment, I held my thumb down on the screen and deleted my message. A lump formed in my throat, and my heart clenched as a sob hiccupped inside my chest. I tossed my phone on the floor beside the bed in frustration, tears pooling in my eyes.

"Dammit," I hissed to myself. "Striker, I just. . ."

I curled into a ball and wept into my pillow until I had let out all my frustration. Eventually, my exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep.

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When I woke up later that afternoon, I groggily climbed out of bed and retrieved my phone from the floor. Entering the bathroom, I scowled at my reflection in the mirror — my eyes were still puffy from my crying. After doing my business and giving my face a good wash, I headed to the kitchen to find something to scrounge up to eat. The only thing that sounded even remotely appetizing at the moment was a TV dinner I'd originally bought to take for work, and I snatched it out of the freezer and popped it in the microwave.

As I waited for the cheap meal to heat up, I pulled my phone out of my robe pocket and opened the messenger app, specifically my conversation with Stolas. The last message exchanged was one I sent a couple of days after Striker left: it was the photo I had sneakily taken of Striker followed by a text that read: He doesn't really like getting his picture taken, so I had to sneak one lol