come home 🥀 sequel to sued into submission 🥀 tracob

7

Jacob Bixenman

A harsh gulp from the bottle of my tequila given by the generous bartender, I let my eyes wander up to the telly and watch the news. Today's tragedy, it seems I'm just waiting for tomorrow's. Will things ever get better?

I've lost the love of my life time and time again due to my own stupidity. This is all on me, isn't it?

The ringing of my mobile is what pulls me back to reality a bit. An unknown number. Pressing accept, I clear my throat and pull up my business persona.

"Bixenman Inc., Jacob Bixenman speaking." I speak loud and clearly, most likely catching the attention of others in this lonely pub.

"Jacob? This is Denise." An elderly sounding woman responds in a cautious voice, making me quirk a brow up.

"Denise?" I question, "Are you a client?"

She sighs, "No- I'm Troye's flatmate. He's- he's asking for you."

I throw enough quid to pay for the bottle and stand to my feet, heading out the door.

"I'm on my way," I mutter and hang up, stuffing my mobile in my pocket.

I flag down a taxi and hop in, telling him the address and sitting back in the seat. He's asking for me? He wants me? This can't be right. My mind runs ten marathons a minute, everything feeling both cluttered and clear as I step out of the cab and up the stairs of Troye Sivan's front porch.

Two knocks to the door and I step back, folding my hands together.

Will he answer, running and jumping into my arms? Will he tell me everything is okay? Is it?

I soon learn that was too much to ask as who I would assume to be Denise answers the door, seeming all kinds of concerned.

"Jacob." She nods, "Come in."

I offer a small and disappointed smile, stepping into their flat.

"Do you know why he's found the sudden interest in me again?" I ask, following her up the stairs.

She turns back and gives me a knowing look, "Something like you showing up out of nowhere and messing with his mind again? Hm?"

I can't help the pang of guilt that hits my chest. What did I do to him?

She stops in her spot on the step and sighs once more, "I'm sorry."

"I just can't help but be protective of him." She explains.

I nod in understanding, "Me too."

"He won't tell me what's wrong, but he's not okay. He really isn't." She continues, "He came home sobbing hysterically."

All the red flags in the world go up as my mind goes to one question.

Who hurt him?

"Bring me to him."