Shouts and Sweet Surrender.

Chapter 8: The Weight of Silence

Ian stood in front of the cabin's small mirror, running his fingers through his thick, black hair in frustration. His hazel eyes, usually warm with a quiet strength, were stormy now, reflecting the internal battle he fought. He had spent hours tossing and turning last night, unable to sleep, his thoughts consumed with Lola and everything unsaid between them.

He leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting the faint dark circles beneath his eyes—a reminder of the emotional exhaustion he carried. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, his tall frame filling the small space. Ian had always been the type to handle things calmly, quietly, but this situation with Lola had pushed him beyond his usual limits.

He grabbed a simple black t-shirt from the chair by his bed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders and chest. The shirt clung to him, outlining the definition of his muscles—a testament to his dedication to staying in shape, though lately, it felt like nothing physical could fix the weight he carried inside. He wasn't trying to impress anyone with his looks; he just wanted to clear his head, to do something that made him feel in control when so much of his life felt out of his hands.

As he bent down to lace up his boots—sturdy, well-worn ones he had since high school—he caught a glimpse of his reflection again, the way his jaw clenched in frustration. Ian had always been considered handsome, with his sharp jawline, the contrast of his black hair against his tan skin, and his hazel eyes that shifted between green and gold depending on the light. He'd been called charming, even, but none of that mattered to him. Not now.

He grabbed a gray hoodie and threw it on, the sleeves slightly too long, brushing over his wrists, but he liked it that way. It was his comfort piece, the thing he wore when the weight of everything felt too much. He stuffed his hands into the pockets and glanced toward the door, wondering what today would bring.

"I shouldn't care so much," he muttered to himself, though he knew it was a lie. He cared more than he was willing to admit—maybe more than he'd ever admit to anyone, except her.

Ian stepped out of the cabin, the chill of the morning air biting at his skin, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere, spinning in a familiar cycle. Lola. She was all he could think about. The way her fiery red hair caught the light, the way she held back when she should've leaned in, the way she had built walls so high around herself that he wasn't sure she even knew how to let anyone in anymore.

He walked down the familiar path that led to the lake, his boots crunching over the fallen leaves. He didn't know why he was drawn to this place, especially after the painful conversation they'd had the night before. Maybe it was because this spot had always been a place of clarity for him. But now, everything between them felt murky, clouded by everything unsaid.

"I'm trying, Lola," he thought, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets. "I've always tried."

He paused at the edge of the dock, staring out over the water. The surface was calm, a direct contrast to the storm inside him. He'd been patient—more patient than anyone else would have been in his shoes. He had given her time, space, understanding. But last night had been the first time he had let his frustration spill over.

He wasn't angry with her—how could he be? He knew she was afraid, that she had been through things she hadn't even told him about. But he was only human, and it hurt to feel like he was always the one waiting, always the one holding on while she kept him at arm's length.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can do this."

Ian's mind echoed the thought that had been haunting him for weeks now. He ran his hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven jaw. He hadn't slept much, hadn't eaten either. None of it seemed to matter when Lola was pulling away.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers hovering over her contact. He could call her. They could talk. But what would he say? He'd said it all already, hadn't he?

"You can't keep waiting for her to change," a voice in the back of his head whispered. But the thought of giving up—of truly walking away—felt impossible. Ian wasn't someone who gave up on the people he cared about, and God, he cared about Lola more than he could ever put into words.

He remembered the first time he realized he loved her. It had been so simple, so obvious, but terrifying all the same. It wasn't some grand moment—just a quiet realization when they were sitting on this very dock, talking about nothing and everything. She had laughed at something he said, and he had looked at her, really looked at her, and he knew then. Knew he was in deep, knew he was falling for someone who didn't even know how to catch him.

"Maybe that's my problem," Ian thought with a bitter smile. "I keep falling, and she doesn't know what to do with it."

The wind picked up, sending a chill down his spine, but Ian barely noticed. He was lost in his thoughts, in the weight of everything unsaid between them. His fingers tightened around his phone. He could send a message. He could walk up to her cabin right now and demand that they talk. But he knew that wouldn't help. Not yet.

"I just need to wait a little longer," he told himself, though he wasn't sure if he believed it anymore.

He turned away from the lake, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets once more. The sound of his boots crunching on the gravel was the only sound in the otherwise quiet morning. Ian's mind was heavy with everything unsaid, everything he wanted to say but couldn't.

As he walked away from the dock, leaving the calm water behind, Ian couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change. Maybe it was the season shifting, the air growing colder, or maybe it was something deeper—something between him and Lola that neither of them could ignore anymore.

One way or another, Ian knew, the silence between them wouldn't last much longer.