Fear

48

"Why did you change?"

That question came a couple of days later.

We were sitting in the living room, some documentary murmuring in the background. The kind of low, steady noise that made the house feel less empty. Tyler sat beside me on the couch, long legs stretched out, one arm draped loosely along the backrest. He was genuinely relaxed, eyes half on the TV, half drifting.

He didn't expect anything from me in that moment. That was the only reason I asked.

"Hm?" He blinked, turning his head towards me. He hadn't heard properly. I repeated the question, more clearly this time.

"...What do you mean?"

"What made the old Tyler change?" I clarified, my voice softer than before.

He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter. His brows furrowed again, the way they did when he was choosing his words carefully.

"Because..." He exhaled through his nose. "I almost lost you."

"Dylan?"

A flicker of something passed through him — guilt, anger, regret. Then he nodded, "Hm."

The logic made sense, I guess, but it still didn't justify why he'd switched from being a monster devoid of emotion or empathy, to the complete opposite so easily. Had seeing Dylan almost kill me made him realise something? Had it changed his chemistry? Because to me, that seemed impossible.

"He made me realise some things," he started, leaning forward onto his elbows, eyes on the rug at our feet. "But I'd already changed, Em. Long before that. I changed the first time we kissed. I just... tried to deny it."

The living room felt a little smaller then. The TV hummed uselessly in the background.

I swallowed. "What would you have done if he had killed me?"

The question hung between us unanswered for a few minutes. He didn't even look at me, he looked at his hands — the same ones that had once hurt me, and the same ones that had since held me like they cared.

"...I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Something bad." I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten. His throat bobbed once.

"What like?" I pressed.

His fingers curled in on themselves as if the answer lived somewhere in the creases of his palms.

He inhaled, slow and steady — the kind of breath someone takes when they're trying not to lie, but also trying not to tell the whole truth. His shoulders rose, then fell.

"I don't know," he murmured. "But it wouldn't have been rational. I know that much."

The word 'rational' landed strangely in my chest. I watched him closely, the way his body seemed to draw inward, almost ashamed. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin and let it fall, fingers tapping against his thigh.

"I still would've killed him. Not because it was right. Or fair. Or sane. But because—" He cut himself off, hands shaking slightly. "—because losing you would've been the last thing I could take."

His voice cracked on the last word. I winced.

Not romantic. Not sweet.

Just raw honesty. And honest was something this man had never been until recently.

I tucked one leg under myself, watching him without blinking. "Why?" I asked. "Why would losing me be the last thing?"

He let out a small, humourless laugh. "Because I've already lost everything else."