Sharing rooms was practically a nightmare scenario for Cloe. It wasn't just a preference—it was a requirement, a system she'd built to survive the sheer chaos of the world. With her severe anxiety, every detail mattered. She needed her own space, purified air, exactly seven pillows fluffed to a specific shape and alignment, one thin cotton blanket—only cotton—and a few sprigs of lavender placed precisely at the foot of her bed. Any deviation could send her spiraling.
Cameron didn't get it. Not really. Not in the way she felt it in her bones.
"You want me to what?" Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, eyes darting across the room like the walls were closing in.
"Relax, Clo," he said, trying to sound casual. "Just look under the bed. It's there."
She froze. Her body locked up. "Under the bed?"
"Yeah. Just bend down and grab it."
"I can't—no, what if something's there? Like, what if something's under there and it touches me?" Her breathing quickened. "What if it grabs my ankle? What if it drags me under? Oh my God, I can't breathe. This isn't safe. I knew this room was cursed."
Cameron blinked. "Babe. It's literally just a blanket."
"You don't understand," she snapped, her voice brittle with panic. "If I have two blankets, I'll overheat, and then my skin'll freak out. I'll start sweating, and then the itching starts, and then I'll scratch too hard and I'll get those weird red patches like at camp, and then I'll cry, and I won't sleep for days and I'll have to go to urgent care again because of an anxiety-induced rash, and then—"
"Cloe." He stepped forward, gently placing his hands on her arms. "Breathe. You don't have to do anything."
"I do, though. I have to make it perfect or I won't sleep, and then I'll start shaking again, and then I'll start hearing things. I can't go through that here. Not here."
He watched her, eyes softening. He tilted his head, giving her a small smile, even if it hurt to see her like this.
"I'll sleep on the couch," he said quietly, brushing his thumb along her arm. "Just like at home. You can have the bed. I'll go hang with Dylan."
"You don't mind?" she whispered, guilt flickering behind her eyes.
"I don't," he said, then added with a grin, "Besides, Zayn thinks it's hilarious that his mom kicks me off the bed. Calls you a 'pillow queen.'"
Cloe let out a shaky laugh, a hint of relief cracking through the panic. "That's... fair."
She sank into the bed slowly, counting the pillows out loud in a soft whisper. Cameron stepped back, already heading for the door.
"Thank God my dad's got him while we're doing this whole... mystery-on-the-run thing," she murmured. "Because if Zayn saw this room, he'd tell his teacher I live in a 'haunted anxiety cave.'"
"Only because it's true," Cameron called from the hallway, grinning.
The door clicked softly behind Cameron, and Cloe exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours. The silence didn't comfort her—it never really did. It just made the noise in her head louder. She stood in the middle of the hotel room, arms wrapped around herself, eyes scanning every corner like a threat might materialize from the wallpaper.
She double-checked the purifier. On.
Lavender sprigs. Positioned.
Pillows. Seven, stacked just right.
Blanket. Cotton. Only one.
Room temperature? Not ideal. Too cold. But manageable.
Still, the air felt too thick. The quiet had weight. Her heart was thudding like it was trying to escape her chest. This wasn't home. This wasn't safe. And they were being chased, sort of. Watched, at the very least. The ESA. Clone labs. Celebrities disappearing. That shadow behind Burdine the other night that no one else seemed to notice.
She tried to lie down, and tried to still herself. But the moment she closed her eyes, she saw Cruise's face. Not here, not now—but echoing. Loud. Mocking. A memory, not a man. Her stomach flipped.
She sat up fast, and the blanket flung off. "In the name of… ARGH. Can't."
The silence pressed harder.
A faint knock tapped at the door. Once. Twice.
Her pulse spiked.
She didn't move. She stared.
Another knock.
"Angel? It's me."
Cameron's voice.
She scrambled to the door, checking the peephole three times before unlocking it. Cameron stood there holding a lukewarm cup of chamomile tea he must've begged Darla's forbidden tea collection.
"You okay?" he asked, eyes scanning her pale face.
"I can't sleep."
He nodded, handing her the tea. "Figured. Thought this might help."
She took it with trembling hands. "Thank you, Cam. God, I feel crazy. Like... everyone else can just be. And I'm constantly about to explode over things that shouldn't matter."
"Cloe," he said, stepping inside. "What you're feeling isn't nothing. It's not small. And it sure as hell isn't crazy."
Her lip quivered. "You're gonna get tired of this one day. You're going to leave me because of it."
"Try me," he said, voice low, firm. "Ten years, babe. Fifteen dating. I've seen every shade of your panic. Still here. Still love you. Still think you're a scorching hot 35 year old babe. "
That hit her hard. She dropped her gaze, blinking fast. "You remember when we got married, and I had to fake a migraine so I could cry in the bathroom because the music was too loud and the perfume made me nauseous?"
He smirked. "Yeah. And I left with you ten minutes later and we got burgers and watched shitty reality TV hosted by Byron in the hotel that we had to reserve at the last minute because the room was too small for you."
She finally smiled, small and real. "That was a good night."
"The best." He kissed her forehead. "Let's make tonight one too."
"I thought you were gonna sleep near Dylan?"
Cameron shrugged. "He snores like a dying lawn mower and keeps farting in his sleep. I made it fifteen minutes."
Cloe laughed. Really laughed. And it cracked something open inside her, just enough to let her breathe. Cloe set the tea on the nightstand, untouched, but her hands had stopped trembling. Cameron kicked off his shoes and lay on top of the covers, careful not to disturb her pillow formation. She pulled her blanket up to her collarbone and curled up on her side, watching him like she was trying to memorize his face.
"You don't think I'm a burden?" she asked quietly. The question felt old, familiar—one she'd asked before, but one anxiety kept recycling like a broken record.
He turned to her, serious now. "You're not a burden. You're my wife. You're the mother of our son. You're the reason I don't feel like the world is some awful, empty place."
Cloe looked away, her throat tight. "It feels like I'm ruining everything all the time with my demands."
"You're not." He paused. "What are you doing? Surviving in a world that overwhelms you every goddamn second? That's not ruining. That's fighting. And I see you."
She let the words wash over her. It didn't fix everything. But it mattered. It gave her the smallest sliver of peace.
"I'll try to sleep," she whispered.
"Okay." He kissed her hand before settling back. "I'll be right here. You tell me if you need anything, pretty princess."
Her arm slammed his chest with that reference.
The mattress was too soft. Too floral. Too Darla. The sheets smelled like antique perfume and forgotten dreams, and the pillow was stiff with lace trim, like it hadn't been slept on since 1997. Burdine hated it, ironically enough. She hated the decorative soaps in the bathroom shaped like seashells. And more than anything, she hated that this was the only safe place they could crash after the motel got compromised.
Byron hadn't said a word since they arrived. Not a single word. Not when Darla kissed both his cheeks like she hadn't once tried to sue him. Not when she pointed at the spare room with its dusty twin beds and too many angel figurines. Not even when Burdine offered him the bigger bed.
He just walked in, sat down on the edge, and stared at the floor like it had a message for him.
Now she watched him from across the room, still fully dressed, makeup smudged, hair pinned but uneven. Her eyeliner had given up hours ago. She didn't care.
"You okay?" she asked. It wasn't soft. It was sharp. Like if he said yes, she'd accuse him of lying.
Byron finally looked up. "She hasn't redecorated."
"You lived here?"
He nodded. "For six months. Before the tabloids found out. Before I fell apart the first time. I used to sleep in this bed."
Burdine swallowed hard. "Do you want me to leave the room?"
"No." He said it too quickly. "I… I don't want to be alone tonight."
"Not after what she said," Burdine muttered.
"She's still in love with you, you know."
"No, she's not."
"She offered you tea in a mug that said 'My Favorite Mistake.' That wasn't subtle."
Byron didn't laugh this time. He just sighed and rubbed his face.
"I shouldn't have come here," he murmured. "This house... it feels like a time capsule of every version of me she tried to kill."
Burdine turned to face him, leaning back against the vanity. "You didn't ask to come here. I followed you. Because you didn't know where else to go. Because the girls called me in panic that they found a letter with my name on it asking to take everything you own and leave you overdosing."
He flinched. "Is that what you think this is?"
"I think we're two broken mannequins wearing each other's trauma like clearance-rack outfits."
"Jesus, Burdy…"
She smiled, tight-lipped. "I'm not wrong."
There was a beat of silence between them, thick with ghosts.
Then Byron stood. He crossed the room, slow and deliberate, until he was in front of her. "You think I'm using you."
"I know you are."
He nodded once. "And you're using me, too."
She didn't deny it.
Byron leaned in, breath warm near her jaw. "I don't care."
Neither did she.
Both of them stared at each other without any emotion, searching for a sign of caring. Memories of their sensual encounter at the motel while being under the influence, her hands painting his body, her nails were the daggers, his demure dominance taking over her bratty attitude…
Byron laughed. He loved to use her. Correction, he loved to feel her using him while he is in denial.
2019, December 7th, 4:39 PM.
Stilesville. Darla's penthouse. Dim lights. Rain tapping against glass.
Byron stood at the edge of the living room, robe cinched tight, eyes unfocused and red. The soft hum of the air purifier, the faint trace of Darla's lilac and vanilla perfume, the 90s whimsigoth playlist bleeding out of the ceiling speakers—it was all too curated. He felt like a guest in his own skin.
Darla approached with her usual grace, barefoot but deliberate with a long flowy skirt and a beige tank top, holding a steaming cup of chamomile in her manicured hands.
"You're not eating again," she said softly. No judgment in her voice—just that familiar disappointment dressed in concern. "That's not like you."
He rubbed at his temple. "Don't remember what is like me anymore."
She smiled faintly, placing the cup beside him on the table. "You've always had a dramatic streak. Relax, just breathe."
He flinched. "I'm not being dramatic."
"I didn't say it like it was a bad thing." She tilted her head, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder, her tone seemingly sarcastic. "It's what makes you magnetic. People couldn't look away. But when it goes unchecked... it burns you out. And I just want you safe."
He looked down at his hands. Thin. Shaking slightly. "I don't feel safe."
"You used to." Her voice softened further. "Before the tour. Before the breakdown. When we were just here, quiet. Just us."
"I was medicated into submission."
"You were stable, Byron." She gave a quiet, pitying smile. "You don't remember the way you were, but I do. You wouldn't sleep. You kept asking me to lock the balcony door. You said the lights in the ceiling were spying on you."
He blinked slowly. That sounded like him. Maybe. Maybe not.
"I was sick," he muttered.
She knelt in front of him now, gently placing a hand over his. "And I was here. I stayed. I fought for you when no one else wanted to deal with the mess. I didn't throw you away."
"I'm not a stray dog, Darla."
"God, of course not." She laughed lightly, brushing her thumb across his knuckles. "You're brilliant. That's why it hurts me to see you like this. You're not... you, when you're out there trying to play hero. You get swept up in things. People take advantage. You always come back in pieces."
He stared at her, lips parted slightly. A thousand things rose to his tongue—but they dissolved.
She rose, smoothed her dress, and gave him a look so full of fondness it almost felt real.
"Drink the tea, baby. I'll run you a bath."
And with that, she disappeared down the hall, hips swaying softly, leaving behind the aftertaste of control wrapped in silk. His eyes shifted to his arm, covered in bruises and cuts from the fight of yesterday.
PRESENT DAY
Byron stood alone in his old room, hand resting on the windowsill, staring out into the Stilesville darkness. The rain hadn't changed. Neither had the smell of this damn place.
He touched the fabric of the robe he held in his hands. He touched the fabric of the robe in his hands, and a shiver crawled up his spine, like something cold was brushing against his skin.
It was the same one.
He let it fall to the floor, eyes glowing from their wateriness. They closed, reminiscent of her cold stranger hand on his bruised body, contrary to the tea. Her tongue verbalized her disappointment in sarcasm and metaphors when she was in a good mood. The rest of the time? She was the devil.
He gripped the windowsill harder, nails digging into the wood as if it could anchor him in this reality. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. It was never really her. She was just... trying to help. Just... help.
"Byron?"
His heart shot into his throat, and in that instant, his mind shattered, scattering his thoughts into a million pieces. His head felt like it was filled with static—too loud, too sharp.
His chest tightened. His body—was it his body? He couldn't feel it. It wasn't real. None of it was real. The voice, the hand that gripped his wrist when he would misbehave, was it her? Was it—
He didn't turn around. His legs felt like they were made of wet sand, and his breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.
"I... I didn't mean to—" Burdine's low voice cracked through the fog of his panic. "Shit, Byron, you okay?"
Okay? Was he? Was he ever?
His lips trembled, jaw aching with the effort to keep them still. Don't say anything. Don't... don't say anything. Just breathe, breathe, breathe. His mind flipped between I'm fine and I'm losing it.
He couldn't fix it. Not here. Not like this.
He didn't answer, but he didn't need to. Burdine could see it, feel it, every shift in the air, every twitch in his hands. She moved closer, like someone cautiously approaching a wild animal.
Byron squeezed his eyes shut. The tears came, not soft, not gentle. They streamed down his face, uncontrollable. His shoulders trembled. The robe on the floor didn't matter. Darla didn't matter. Nothing made sense anymore.
"I—I just..." he gasped, fingers still clutching the windowsill, but he was shaking so hard now that he felt like he might snap into pieces. "She told me... told me I was too much. Too fucked up for her. She was right, Burdy. I—I… I should have jumped."
Burdine's presence became an anchor, but it felt fragile too, like he might pull her into the storm with him.
"Hey," she whispered, stepping into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her—soft, steady eyes, the kind that could hold him together even when everything in him was breaking. "Byron, listen to me. You are not too much."
His breath hitched again. Love? Was he even capable of love anymore? Was he... was he even capable of being loved?
"I don't know who I am anymore," he rasped, voice cracking. "She... she told me I needed her. That I was nothing without her... and now... now I don't know how to live without her voice in my head. I'm tired of people using me."
Burdine's gaze softened. Her hand found his trembling wrist, but she didn't try to make him calm down. She didn't tell him it would be okay. She didn't sugarcoat it.
Instead, she just nodded. "Snap out of it. Do you really believe I am using you? I'm just… I am still salty about what happened. Can you blame me?"
His chest heaved, too much air trying to fill lungs that couldn't seem to breathe right. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. Everything's a lie. I'm a liar."
He broke down again, the tears falling in torrents. He didn't try to stop it. Didn't care.
Burdine didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She just stood there, firm as a rock, her hands steady on his arms as if she could ground him in the chaos.
"You're not a lie, Byron," she murmured, her voice low, unshaken. "You're hurting. And that's okay. It's okay to hurt. Being hurt implies that you feel like shit for what happened. I'm not here to use you, I… I guess we are friends now."
He collapsed forward, burying his face in the fabric of her shirt, his body shaking uncontrollably. What if I can't be fixed? What if she's right? What if I was always too broken to fix?
Burdine held him, steady, unwavering. She didn't have all the answers. She couldn't undo the damage Darla had caused. But she wasn't going anywhere.
Her arms were wrapping him tightly like a blanket as the crisis became stronger but quieter.
"I don't know what to fucking do anymore," he rasped, his voice breaking, cracking under the weight of his words. "I keep hearing her voice... in my head. Over and over. Telling me I'm worthless. Telling me I'm broken. That I'll always be broken."
Burdine's hands moved to his back, pressing against him with a steady force, trying to ground him. She didn't try to offer false comfort, didn't try to sugarcoat the truth. She knew better. She knew the damage the lies could do, the way they twisted you until you couldn't tell where the pain ended and you began.
"You're not worthless, Byron," she said, her voice firm, yet filled with a tenderness that cut through the suffocating air. "You're not broken. She doesn't get to fucking control you anymore."
He jerked away from her, his eyes wide and desperate, his face streaked with tears, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he wiped them away. The sobs came faster now, each one more violent than the last. There was no holding them back, no pretending anymore. "But I believed her!" His voice cracked like shattered glass. "I let her do this to me. I—I'm still doing it. She's still fucking with my head. She's still here, still in my fucking head!"
Burdine's heart cracked at the sight of him. He looked like a man lost to the storm, drowning in the wreckage of his own mind. She couldn't fix him—not in the way he needed—but she could give him something to hold onto. She could be the one thing he could trust. The only thing that wouldn't tear him apart.
"Byron," she said softly, her hands gently cupping his face, forcing him to look at her, to see her. "You believed her. Because you were broken, because you were vulnerable. But you're not there anymore. She's not here anymore. It's just you. And it's just me."
She wasn't going to baby him, but she wasn't going to leave him in this state either. She'd seen this before—too many times. She didn't do sympathy, but she could damn well offer strength.
"You're not worthless, Byron," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. She was as blunt as ever, refusing to coddle him, but her words carried the weight of conviction. "You're not broken. And you sure as hell aren't what she told you you were." Her gaze didn't falter as she forced him to look up at her. "You've let her shape you for far too long, but it's over now. Do you understand me?"
Byron recoiled from her, pulling away with a panicked, almost haunted look in his eyes. His breath came in frantic, ragged bursts as his hands trembled while he wiped the tears away, but they came faster than he could stop them. "But I believed her," he choked out. "I let her control me—manipulate me like I was her bloody puppet. I'm such a fucking imbecile. I—I still can't get her out of my head."
Burdine's jaw tightened, her eyes hardening. She wasn't going to let him drown in this. Not again. Not this time. Not on her watch. She reached forward and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look directly at her. "Listen to me, Byron. She is gone. That woman—whatever the hell she did to you—it's over. You are not her puppet anymore. You're not a fucking victim anymore. We are staying for the night then we are getting you a hotel room."
Byron blinked, his breath hitching at the force of her words, but the uncertainty in his eyes was clear. The flicker of hope she was trying to ignite was met with doubt, and it stung.
"I'm scared," he whispered, his voice barely audible, filled with a raw vulnerability that tore through him. "I'm scared of what's left of me without her. Without her control. Without someone telling me what to do... What the hell do I do without that? I don't know how to live without her… without her voice in my head. Without her guidance. She was all I knew. She took care of me when I needed someone."
Burdine stood there, her gaze unwavering, and her fingers tightened against his jaw as she held him in place. "That's the problem, Byron. You've let her convince you that you needed her. That you couldn't exist without her. But that's a lie. You've been living with a fucking lie for far too long. You're not her puppet, and you're not her property. You never were. It's time to stop playing that game. She is an illusion."
Byron's fists clenched, his body trembling with the mix of fear and anger that churned within him. "But what if I can't?" he rasped, his voice raw, "What if I'm just broken? What if I'm too far gone for any of this to work?"
Burdine's eyes darkened with a quiet fury. This wasn't the time for him to wallow in his doubts. Not now. "You listen to me, Byron Powell," she said, her voice sharp with authority. "You're not broken. You never were. You're hurt, you're confused, and I'm not pretending this is going to be easy. But you can't sit here and wallow in this self-pity. I'm not going to let you drag yourself down any further. You think I don't know what it's like to be suffocated by your own mind? To have someone telling you who you are, what you're worth? I'm not going to let you do that to yourself anymore."
Byron swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers, desperate for a sign that she was right. But the truth was terrifying to him. If he didn't have her to tell him what to do, who would he even be? How did he even function?
"I'm scared," he whispered again, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. "I'm so fucking scared."
Burdine didn't soften. She didn't pity him. She didn't stroke his ego. What she did was steady herself, press into him, and refuse to let him break.
"I know you are," she said, her voice low but unwavering. "But you don't have to be scared alone, Byron. Not anymore. Not while I'm still standing here."
Byron's whole body shook, but there was something else in him now—something raw, but alive. He was terrified. But he was alive. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he might have a choice. Maybe it wasn't too late to pick himself up, to stop letting his past control him.
"I don't know if I can fix me," he said, the words coming out raw, but more sure than before.
"You don't have to fix it all at once," Burdine said firmly. "Take it one step at a time. But you've got to fight. You've gotta want it. And if you want it, I'll be right there with you. You're not alone in this. But if you keep believing that you're still that broken man she made, then you'll be stuck forever. You're not that man anymore. You're not."
Byron closed his eyes, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting her words sink into him. He wasn't ready to heal. Not yet. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel completely broken.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start.
"I'm not a man, I'M NOT A MAN" he screamed, the vulnerability raw in his voice.