hold me like a knife

divorced!au:

unknown / nth — 1

sweet music:

he picks up on the third ring. 

“is this a butt dial?” there are no hellos, no confusion. just a voice that is full of sleep—heavy and deep the way i remember it. i bite my lip and stifle a sigh. 

“no,” a loose thread on my t-shirt finds its way between my fidgety fingers. hesitation rises in my and almost tampers down the words, but they escape anyway. “an sos call?”

“you alright?” he sounds a little bit alert then, not really alarmed, not yet. but this is not that kind of an sos call. 

“mmm,” i breathe down the phone. “i need… well… i have to be somewhere important and…”

“this is interesting,” he interjects. there’s a rustle on his end of the call—he’s getting out of bed, i think. his hair might be slipping out of its bun by now, wild on one side and matted on the other. 

and there; now he’d be running his fingers through them. getting them as presentable as possible even though there’s no one to see it. 

at least no one i’m aware of. 

“what is?”

he yawns. “you’re rambling. what do you need?”

“my car’s been making a weird sound…” i flush, suddenly embarrassed. 

fuck fuck fuck. should have sucked it up and called a mechanic. fuck. 

“ah.” that’s all he says, a quiet little ah with an edge of mischief to it. “and you want me to come over and take a look?”

“mmm.”

“what happened to all the mechanics in town?”

he’s teasing, i know he’s teasing—his tone is light and airy, teetering on impish, and i can practically hear the smile in it. practically see it on his face… still, i flush a bit more. 

“they have all this jargon,” i wave my hands through the air, knowing he can’t see me. “i haven’t had to do it in quite some time.”

the last time it happened, he was here. the last time my car needed a mechanic, i had a husband.

he’s not coming he’s not coming he’s not coming. and why would he…

“alright.”

my breath hitches. “really?”

i have a feeling he nods. a moment passes by, and he hums. “it’s 7:30 in the morning. i haven’t had coffee. barely slept for three hours. i don’t think any decision i make right now should be counted as a bad decision.”

in spite of myself, i giggle. “i can have coffee ready for you?”

“would you? haven’t had your coffee in a long time, darling.”

darling. he’s sleepy, i tell myself, he’s barely in the land of the living. 

“a year,” i say.

“a year,” he echoes. 

thirty minutes later, he shows up at my door. 

damp curls stick to his forehead, his faded and worn t-shirt hugs him just the way i remember it. i’m no longer used to his large body dwarfing any space he’s in, especially not when the bell rings, and i open the door, coming right up to his chest. especially not when he lingers right there at the threshold like an uninvited vampire. 

“would you like to come in?”

“i’d have thought you parked your car outside.”

it’s not a particularly mean jab. it’s not cruel at all. and yet as i look at him a tinge of wariness flickers in his eye. 

“the coffee’s inside,” i mumble. 

“right,” he says, and this time, follows me inside obediently. 

there’s a soft click of the door shutting behind him. there’s warmth and the smell of coffee and the sun. it surrounds me—us—like a blanket. a bubble that won’t let any of the fragile domesticity escape. i don’t turn. i let him linger and look around. 

“it smells like coffee,” he says, his tone neutral, but there’s a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“freshly brewed.” i motion toward the kitchen, my voice tight, unsure. “let me get you a mug.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “i’ll wait.”

to the kitchen i go, mostly in search of a place to hide. i just know i would crumble if i went any closer to him. the distance is safe. not breathing in his familiar scent is safe. 

all around me is dead silence. 

and then the cacophony of thoughts that compels me to go through the motions—get the mugs out, wipe them clean, press the plunger on the french press, pick at the loose thread. on and on until somehow i’m in front of two steaming mugs, and it’s time to go outside. 

“here,” i blink, holding the mug in front of him, somehow back in the living room again.

our fingers brush when he takes it from me, and it’s a gut punch of a feeling—lasting an eternity and over far too soon. 

“‘s nice,” he breathes, sipping his coffee, makes exaggerated sounds of contentment. i smile. 

thank you lingers on the tip of my tongue. 

thank you for being here on your day off. thank you for not making this difficult. thank you for coming.

but the moment passes and now it’s too late to say anything. 

it’s enough that he’s here after everything. 

the silence between us stretches long and thin, like a tightrope i’m terrified to walk. he stands there, mug in hand, looking at me the way he used to—eyes quiet, assessing, like he’s reading all the things i’m not saying.

the tightness in my chest is too much to bear. “the car,” i mumble, motioning vaguely toward the door. “we should…”

“right,” he says, cutting me off, his voice low and calm, like he’s waiting for something. for me, maybe. he puts the mug down on the side table with deliberate care.

i glance at the mug and then at him—warm, kind eyes. open face. enough to make my chest ache.

a small sigh escapes his lips. “the car, then.” he turns toward the door, his shoulders not tense but not exactly relaxed either. there’s hesitation there too. like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

i don’t.

and it’s perhaps the voice of wisdom breaking through the forefront of my brain that i don’t.