Hostage to you | B.E

31 i love you

A/N: we fall apart as it gets dark i'm in your arms in central park and nothing you could do or say I can't escape the way I love you.

She's gone.

I wake up to cold sheets and silence that feels intentional. Her side of the bed is smooth, untouched, like she never came back after I passed out.

There's no note. No mug on the counter. No bag on the chair. No music playing in the other room like she usually does when she's trying not to wake me.

Just absence. Clean. Surgical.

My chest starts buzzing in that way it does when panic is still pretending to be logic.

I call her. It rings once, then voicemail.

I text:

B: hey where are you?
B: you okay?
B: I'm kind of losing it. can you please just text back?

Nothing.

The kitchen smells like yesterday's coffee. I don't remember making it. The rain has gone from a whisper to a full-throated hum against the windows, thick and gray. I try to convince myself she just went out for breakfast. That she's doing something boring and forgettable.

But it's been hours.

I don't know how long I stand there before my hands start shaking. I end up on the floor of the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over my fists, head pressed to my knees like I can fold myself smaller than this ache in my chest.

It doesn't work.

I call Finneas.

He picks up after two rings, voice thick with sleep.

"She's gone," I whisper.

He pauses. "Gone gone?"

"I don't know. I woke up and she wasn't here. She's not answering. Her phone's off. She didn't leave a note."

"You sure she didn't just go for a walk? Didn't mention anything?"

"I would've known."

Silence. Then, "You need me to come over?"

"No," I lie. "I just need her."

Fin exhales into the phone, quiet and careful. "You said she's done this before?"

"Only once," I say. "Back in March. She had a panic attack and ran. I found her crying in an alley. I thought that was behind us."

"Maybe it still is," he says. "Maybe this isn't that."

"I thought we were okay," I murmur. "Last night felt real. She said she was trying. I believed her."

"And now you feel like you were wrong?"

I press my fingers into my temples. "I feel like I scared her off. Like I'm too much again."

"You're not."

"But what if I am?"

⸻

By the time I hear the front door open, I'm pacing the living room in a T-shirt two sizes too big and socks that won't stay up. My throat is raw from saying nothing. My hands are cold from holding nothing.

And then the door clicks.

I freeze.

A second later, she's there—soaked to the knees, cheeks flushed, hair a damp mess. Her hoodie is pulled tight around her neck, and she's got that look she wears when she's nervous but trying to look fine.

I don't even wait.

I sprint across the room like I've been shot from a cannon and crash into her, arms around her neck, face buried in her shoulder. I don't care that she's wet. I don't care that I'm shaking.

"I thought you left," I whisper.

Her arms come up around me instantly, one hand cradling the back of my head.

"I didn't," she breathes, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

I step back enough to see her face. "Where did you go?"

She hesitates, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded bandage.

"Can I show you something?"

I nod.

She rolls up her sleeve.

And there it is.

My heart.

Literally.

A tiny, lopsided heart with a crack at the bottom. The one I'd drawn for her on a napkin with eyeliner during a lazy afternoon. Underneath it, in my own handwriting, are the words:

I love you.

My chest caves in.

"I... what...?"

"I got it done today," she says softly. "I wanted it to be a surprise. That's why I didn't tell you. The artist's account is @mtattoos—they don't tag anyone. Everything's anonymous. I thought it'd be safe. Quiet. Something just for us."

"You didn't answer your phone," I manage to say, voice hoarse. "You didn't leave a note. I thought you ran."

"I know," she says, her voice catching. "I didn't think. I was in my head about making it perfect. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I look at the tattoo again. At the jagged little heart. At my messiness, my love, inked into her skin like she wants to wear it forever.

"That's my heart," I whisper.

She nods. "And my forever."

I start crying. I don't mean to. It's not the pretty kind, either—it's the snotty, hiccuping, stupid kind that makes your whole body curl inward.

She pulls me against her again and just holds me.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my hair. "I should've left a note. I didn't think you'd spiral like that."

"I always spiral," I say against her neck. "It's basically my thing."

She kisses the side of my head. "I wanted you to be surprised."

"I am."

"Do you hate it?"

I pull back and look at her wrist again. "I love it."

Her eyes shine. "I got a second one."

My brows lift. "What?"

She tugs the collar of her shirt down. Just under her collarbone, there's another tattoo. This one's smaller. Simple black lines that spell out a date.

The day we met.

My knees almost give out.

"You tattooed our anniversary on your body," I say.

"It's not our anniversary yet," she says, teasing, brushing her knuckle under my eye. "But it's the day my life changed, so yeah. I marked it."

"You're insane," I breathe.

"I know," she smiles. "So are you."

She kisses me again, and I kiss her back, hard and real and full of the relief I haven't been able to put into words.

"I was writing a sad song about you," I tell her when we finally break apart. "I thought you ghosted me. I thought you were never coming back."

"You wrote a song?"

"Half a song. It was about ambulances and grief. It was dramatic as hell."

She laughs and wipes my cheeks. "Play it for me later?"

"Only if you never disappear on me again."

"Only if you stop assuming I will."

I nod.

We sit on the couch again, same blanket, same hoodie. But everything feels different now.

Her arm is around me. Her heart is on her skin. And mine is in her hands.

A/N: when I'm old enough to get a tattoo I'll get this as a tattoo aswell
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