That's What You Get

Chapter Fourteen: Cracks in the Foundation

Dani stood at the kitchen sink, unmoving, her hands submerged in lukewarm water that had long gone cold. A plate slipped from her fingers and clattered against the ceramic, but didn't break. She blinked at the sound like it had come from someone else's house.

Patrick was still asleep upstairs, or still pretending to be.

The sunlight had a harshness to it this morning, all angles and glare. The kind of light that made things too visible.

She hadn't heard from Mikey. Not since the night before. He'd left quickly, too quickly, and something in his eyes, glassy, wounded, had lodged itself deep in her chest. Guilt, like a shard she couldn't dig out.

She had known Pete was coming.

She hadn't warned Mikey.

"Just keep things smooth," Patrick had said. "No drama. You can handle that, right?"

And she had. Smiled. Laughed at the right moments. Sat quietly when Pete showed up, like he hadn't just cracked the air open. She'd watched Mikey go still, fold in on himself, and said nothing. Because if she said something, if she made a scene, Patrick would've...

She didn't finish the thought.

Her phone sat silent on the counter.

She finally dried her hands and picked it up, staring at the screen like she could will Mikey's name to appear. She typed out a message three times and deleted it each time. There was no version of "Are you okay?" that didn't feel insulting.

She tried calling. No answer.

Not even voicemail.

Her stomach turned. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

She was halfway to grabbing her keys when Patrick's voice floated down the stairs. "Dani?"

She froze.

"Where are you going?"

"Just out," she called back, trying to keep her tone light. "Thought I'd grab coffee."

"You didn't make any?"

The pause stretched.

"No," she said, quieter.

She waited. Heard the floorboards creak above, then nothing.

She should go. She had to go. But her legs wouldn't move.

Patrick was coming down the stairs now.

She slid her phone into her pocket and turned toward the front door.

He didn't stop her.

Not this time.

But she felt his eyes on her back the entire way out.

------

Mikey woke to the smell of old fabric and aftershave, familiar in a way that turned his stomach. The room was dim, sunlight filtering through closed blinds in stripes. His head ached. His limbs felt heavy.

He was in his own bed. At home.

But he wasn't alone.

Pete sat on the bed beside him, back against the headboard, arms resting casually across his chest. Watching. Waiting.

"Morning," Pete said, as if they hadn't crossed a line so sharp it still echoed in Mikey's bones.

Mikey flinched upright, heart slamming against his chest. "You-" His voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"

Pete didn't answer at first. He just looked at him, and for a terrifying second, Mikey thought he might smile. But he didn't. He only reached for the coffee cup on the end table and took a slow sip. "You passed out," he said. "Didn't want you to wake up alone."

Mikey's hands curled into fists. "You broke in."

"You left the door unlocked." Pete raised an eyebrow. "Careless."

"I didn't-" Mikey's breath hitched. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember locking it before going to Dani's. Or anything after getting home. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"But I am." Pete's voice was low, calm. "And you didn't stop me."

Mikey opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came. He thought of last night. The cold air. The shock. The way he'd folded. The way his own voice had trembled with obedience he thought he'd outgrown.

"You shouldn't be here," Mikey whispered, but it didn't sound like conviction. It sounded like surrender.

Pete moved slowly, sitting up on the bed beside him. "You don't really want me to go, Mikey."

Mikey turned his face away, shame burning through him like acid. His skin felt too tight. His body betrayed him with its stillness, its lack of resistance.

"Do you?" Pete pressed, voice quiet. Dangerous.

Mikey's throat closed. He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Pete reached out, gently brushed his fingers through Mikey's hair, and Mikey didn't move. Couldn't move.

"There he is," Pete murmured. "My good boy."

A part of Mikey shattered right then. Quietly. Without sound. Like a pane of glass bowing under pressure until it split.

He should fight. Should scream. Should run.

But he stayed.

Because staying was easier than admitting how much of himself had already been rewritten.

Pete leaned in closer, breath warm against Mikey's ear. "You sleep better when I'm around. You always have."

Mikey didn't respond.

Because somewhere, deep down, that felt like the truth.

-----

Pete was silent now, his breathing slow and steady against Mikey's neck. The room had dimmed, the afternoon light shining weakly through the drawn curtains. Mikey lay still beneath him, barely blinking, every muscle frozen, not from fear anymore, but from something heavier. Something resigned.

He didn't want to think about what had just happened. He didn't want to think at all.

Pete's hand curled around Mikey's waist like it used to, possessive, heavy. "You feel it again, don't you?" he murmured, voice low and pleased. "Like coming home."

Mikey's throat tightened. He didn't answer. Couldn't. The part of him that wanted to scream was buried somewhere deep, muffled beneath layers of guilt, shame, and that awful sense of relief he wasn't ready to name.

Pete leaned in, nuzzling against Mikey's temple with a sickening tenderness. "You fought so hard to forget me. All those therapy sessions, all that righteous anger." He laughed softly. "And yet here you are. Right where you belong."

Mikey blinked up at the ceiling. His fingers clenched into the blanket beneath them. Right where you belong.

He wanted to rip that sentence out of his memory.

But something inside him, something broken and bruised, echoed the words.

Pete shifted beside him, propping himself up on one elbow. "I missed this. Missed you. But I get it now. You needed to be reminded. That's all."

Mikey turned his face away. "Don't pretend this is love."

Pete smirked. "Who said anything about love?" His hand slid down Mikey's side. "It's just need, baby. And you needed me."

That word again... need. It made Mikey want to vomit. And yet, his body didn't move. His voice didn't rise. The fight in him, the fire, it had sputtered out somewhere in the long silence after Pete had whispered, "I missed you too, babyboy."

Pete stood, stretching, as if this were his house now. Maybe it was. Maybe it always had been.

"You're going to make me breakfast," he said casually, heading toward the kitchen. "Something warm. Something familiar."

Mikey sat up slowly, his legs like lead. He nodded, hollow.

And that was the worst part.

Not the nod.

The part of him that wanted to.