Chapter Thirteen

SOLANA

Slowly, I push myself up, the blankets pooling around my waist as I turn to face him.

Tyler sits beside me, his eyes searching mine with something raw, something desperate. His hair is disheveled, his jaw tight like he’s barely keeping himself together.

His gaze flickers to my cheek, the one he hit, and guilt flashes in his eyes. His fingers twitch like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know if he should.

“Baby…” His voice is thick, hesitant. “Say something.”

I stare at him, my heart hammering.

What am I supposed to say?

That he hurt me? That he terrifies me? That I don’t know if I can keep pretending this is normal?

That a part of me still loves him anyway?

I lick my lips, my voice barely above a whisper. “You hit me.”

Tyler flinches like the words physically hurt him. He swallows hard, reaching for me, but I pull back, and his hand drops between us.

“I know,” he murmurs, his expression pained. “And I hate myself for it.”

I watch him, searching his face for something—anything—that will tell me this is real. That this isn’t just another one of his games, another manipulation.

But I don’t know if I can tell the difference anymore.

He exhales shakily. “I lost control. You were pushing me, and I—I just snapped. But it wasn’t your fault, okay? It was mine.”

His hands grip his knees. “I swear on everything, Solana, it will never happen again.”

I blink, surprised that he’s taking responsibility. That he’s not fully blaming me.

But does it even matter?

Does it change anything?

He reaches for my hand, slowly, cautiously, as if testing the waters.

“Please, baby,” he whispers. “Let me fix this.”

Tears burn in my eyes, and I don’t know what to do.

Because I know how this ends.

It always ends the same.

Before I can think, before I can move, Tyler pulls me into his arms.

His warmth surrounds me, strong arms wrapping around my trembling body, caging me in against his chest. His scent—familiar, intoxicating—fills my lungs, and for a second, just a second, I let myself sink into it.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. His hand rubs slow, soothing circles on my back. “I love you so much. I’ll never, never hurt you again.”

A broken sob escapes me.

Because I know he’s lying.

I know this cycle. The anger, the pain, the apologies. The way he always makes me feel like maybe this time will be different.

But it never is.

And yet, I can’t push him away.

I hate myself for it.

I clutch at his shirt, my fingers twisting in the fabric as sobs wrack through me. My entire body shakes, my breaths coming out in sharp, uneven gasps, but he just holds me tighter, whispering reassurances that sound like poison.

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay,” he coos, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.”

But he did.

And he will again.

The realization makes my sobs come harder, my chest tightening until I feel like I can’t breathe.

But Tyler takes it as something else—like my breaking apart in his arms means I forgive him.

Like I’m his again.

His grip softens, but he doesn’t let me go. “I’ll be better, baby. I promise. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He kisses my temple, his breath warm against my skin.

“You’re everything to me, Solana. My whole world.”

My stomach twists painfully.

Because it sounds like love.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Not anymore.

Tyler keeps whispering to me, his voice soothing, coaxing, like a lullaby meant to erase the pain he’s caused.

His hands glide up and down my back and waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize me—trying to make me his again.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair. “But I swear, I’ll make this right. You believe me, don’t you?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know how to.

My sobs have quieted, but my chest still aches, my eyes swollen and burning. The weight of exhaustion pulls at me, dragging me down, making me feel like I’m floating in a haze of heartbreak and confusion.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate that I love him.

He pulls back slightly, tilting my chin up so I’m forced to meet his gaze. His green eyes are filled with something desperate, something fragile, like he’s begging me to give him another chance.

“I love you, Solana,” he breathes. “More than anything in this world.”

A single tear slips down my cheek. His thumb brushes it away, his touch soft, gentle—deceptive.

“You know that, right?” he presses.

I swallow, my throat thick. “Tyler…”

His grip on my chin tightens just for a second—just enough to make my heart stutter—before he exhales and softens again.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs. “Say you know I love you.”

I close my eyes.

I know he loves me. But love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.

Tyler watches me, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he sighs and pulls me back into his chest, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You don’t have to say it. I know you love me, baby.”

And just like that, the moment is over.

I’m back in his arms, back where he. wants me.

And even though every part of me is screaming to run—to leave—I don’t.

Because I don’t know how.

Tyler tilts my chin up again, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my lips. There’s a question in his stare, one I should say no to, one I should push away.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of fighting, tired of crying, tired of this endless push and pull that always ends the same way.

So when he leans in, I don’t turn away.

His lips brush against mine, hesitant at first, like he’s testing me, waiting for resistance. But when I don’t pull back, he deepens the kiss, his hand slipping into my hair, tilting my head the way he likes.

I shouldn’t do this.

I know I shouldn’t do this.

But my body betrays me, responding to his touch like it always does, like it’s trained to.

A quiet sound escapes me, and that’s all it takes for Tyler to pull me closer, pressing me into him like he needs me to breathe. His hands skim down my back, over my waist, gripping my hips as if reminding me who I belong to.

And maybe that’s what this is.

A silent way to make me forget. To remind me that, despite everything, he’s still mine.

And I’m still his.

The kisses grow more desperate, more consuming, as he shifts, guiding me back against the mattress. His fingers trace over my skin, memorizing, claiming, owning.

He whispers my name like a prayer, like an apology, like a promise.

And even though I know his love is poison—

I drink it anyway.

He slowly removes my clothes, his lips never leaving my lips, my skin. Tears don't stop rolling down my cheeks as he compliments the same body he criticises every other day.

I let him continue because my heart is desperate to feel loved and my mind is in need of a temporary distraction of the pain I'm feeling.

The room quickly fills with the sound of our breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet desperation in the way he holds me.

Tyler moves with purpose, like he’s trying to erase everything that happened tonight, like he can kiss away the pain, the fear, the doubt.

And for a moment, I let him.

Because right now, in this moment, it’s easier to pretend.

To pretend that this is love. That his touch is tender, that his hands aren’t the same ones that left me crying just hours ago.

His lips trail down my neck, murmuring my name between kisses, whispering how much he loves me, how he’ll never hurt me again, how I’m the only thing that matters.

I close my eyes, letting the words wash over me like a lullaby.

I want to believe him.

Gosh, I want to believe him.

But deep down, I know the truth.

And then the moment fades, the haze lifts, I’ll be right back where I started.

In his arms.

Trapped.

Tyler’s breathing slows, his arm draped possessively over my waist as he pulls me closer. His lips brush against my shoulder, his voice thick with exhaustion and something that almost sounds like contentment.

“I love you, baby,” he murmurs, his words slurred with sleep.

I don’t respond.

I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening as his breathing evens out, as he drifts into sleep without a care in the world.

My chest tightens, and before I can stop them, tears slip silently down my cheeks.

I hate this.

I hate how easy it is for him—to hurt me, to break me, and then to fall asleep like nothing happened. Like he hasn’t left another crack in me that I’ll never be able to fix.

A part of me wants to wake him up, to shake him, to scream at him until he sees what he’s doing to me.

But I don’t.

Because what’s the point?

He already knows.

He knows—and he doesn’t care.

I turn onto my side, curling into myself, my body wracked with silent sobs. My mind drifts to my parents, to their smiles through the screen when we last talked.

And I lied.

I’d told them I was fine.

Because if I told them the truth—if I told them what my life has really become—what would they even do? Would they come back for me? Would they make me leave him?

Would I even let them?

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the blanket tighter.

No.

I can’t tell them.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

And if it’s real, then that means I have to do something about it.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

So instead, I lie there in the dark, letting my tears soak into the pillow, swallowing my pain, my fear, my truth.

And as Tyler holds me in his sleep, I wonder if I’ll ever find the strength to leave.

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