from the outside, your relationship with driver is envious. he does whatever you ask at the drop of a hat, only speaks softly to you, listens to what you have to say. and it is envious, you know anyone would kill to have a boyfriend like yours, but they don’t know about his secret lifestyle.

to be fair, you hadn’t either at first. you really didn’t notice something was up until he was still refusing to sleepover even after being official. he always said that he wanted you to get enough sleep and that he was a loud snorer so he would just disturb you all night. it wasn’t until you demanded the truth from him that he told you.

it was really your fault for staying after the fact. you thought you could handle it, i mean he said it himself, he just drives, nothing else. until just driving turns into getting wrapped up in business driver never intended to be a part of. and now he’s been distant, disappears to only come back with various injuries— some more extreme than the others.

you had some medical training so often times driver came to you. he knew it was wrong and he could feel the disappointment in your stare as you cleaned him up. he felt shameful, but it’s not like he could just go to the hospital. you had slowly grown to miss the life you two had before this, resenting the current reality of your situation. you two had built a house from cards, and with the gust of your opening door, driver inadvertently blows the house down.

you don’t know what time it was, it wasn’t even late when driver stumbled inside your apartment. the sun had just set in LA but the night was very young, a deep blue setting the sky. you hadn’t heard anything from the man all day, and here he was clumsily walking through your apartment, knocking over a few things along the way. the sound of something falling and crashing is what pulls you to the living room. you knew it was driver the moment the door opened, but he was normally much more graceful than the commotion currently going on.

you turned the corner to see driver leaning over your counter, one hand clutching his side. it didn’t take long to notice the crimson stain contrasting the light beige of his silk jacket. the same dark red stains his hands, face and even some of his hair and the iron smell makes you sick. your lips purse at the sight; you should be worried, but this seemed to happen more often than not recently. he’s searching your eyes for disappointment and he finds it quickly, choosing to drop his head to avoid the inevitable for just a bit longer.

you don’t say anything when you turn back down the hall to get the first aid kit. driver knows the routine by now, so he finds his spot in the kitchen chair as he waits for you. when you sit in front of him, you finally notice his bloodshot and teary eyes. it makes you sick knowing how much pain he was in— knowing it was all his fault. it’s silent as you clean him up, aside from the occasional grunt or sniffle from the man across from you. it looks like a stab wound, maybe only 1-2 inches deep proximal to the inguinal region— just above the waistband of his pants. lucky for him, his bladder wasn’t punctured, the wound mostly torn flesh and muscle. unluckily, those muscles are all needed for sitting up, laying down and a lot more importantly daily activities; recovery is gonna be a bitch.

by now, normally you would’ve said something. driver knows the routine, he’s been waiting for you to reprimand him so he can apologize and spend the rest of the night making it up to you. it’s never that simple anymore. the wound is as clean as you can get it, and you’re placing a few stitches, but still, either of you have yet to utter a word. you’re so close, in such an intimate position, yet you’ve never felt so far. you pull away once the stitches are finished, you both know you’re avoiding his gaze, but can he blame you? if you looked now, you’d just be sucked right back into his chaos.

you know driver won’t initiate the conversation, he never does. instead he acts as if he ignores it, it isn’t actually happening. it angers you, he knows you’re upset, why can’t he ever just apologize first? sure once you’ve said something, he will, but you shouldn’t always be the one to bring up the tough conversations. now what is there left to say? driver can tell you he’s sorry, he’ll be more careful, won’t get involved again, swears that he’ll quit— he never acts like he means it. so for once, you leave him to his silence.

it’s only when you sigh and stand to clean up, that he moves. driver reaches out for you, but you’re able to quickly worm away as you pretend to be very focused on grabbing the wrappers and trash. he almost pouts as he lets your arm drop, letting you run off to the trash can. expecting a quick return, driver anxiously shakes his leg and he feels more regret sink in as his aching solitude continues. he can see you propped against the counter, persistently tearing at the flesh around your nails in an attempt to look more interested in anything else. running a hand over his face, driver stands to walk towards you, nothing more than a muffled grunt coming out at the effort. soon he’s standing next to you, shoulder to shoulder and letting his arms rest at his side as to gently brush the back of his hand against yours.

drivers eyes are fixed on the same spot on the floor as your own, “i’m sorry..” his voice comes out softer, higher almost. it’s a moment before you respond, “i don’t know if i can keep doing this.”

your words hit the both of you like a tsunami and the breath is sucked out with the waves. if you were looking at him, you’d be able to see the tears forming in his eyes, and the soft tremble of his bottom lip. “how am i supposed to look forward to a future with you if i never know if you’re coming home alive? this isn’t fair to me, i want a normal life with you. is that so much to ask?” the exhaustion settles deep in your words and it stings like a scalpel cutting open to expose his deepest wounds. driver doesn’t think of the future, because thinking of what he could have requires hope. and what he has right now is more concrete than the disappointment hope tends to bring. for you though, he is willing to take the chance if it means you will stay. the image of going day by day alone haunts driver. without you to look forward to, there was nothing worth coming home to.

it’s a heavy silence that almost speaks louder than the man next to you, “we can leave, all of this, start over” you frown in confusion, “anywhere you want. money’s not an issue, i could take care of us.” his voice never raises, but you can hear the sickening ache behind each syllable.

the idea sounds nice, almost too good, you can’t help but image a quiet life with driver. one where you have a small house somewhere scenic and a more stable sense of security. “i don’t want to pack my life up for this to start again somewhere else.”

he’s quick to respond, “that won’t happen. we can go far away, change our names, get fake identities. i just want to be with you, whatever it takes.” your head finally turns to find his face, and if you really wanted to put your foot down, that was the wrong move. he can feel you looking, but he feels too ashamed to find your eyes. driver looks pale, almost sickly from blood loss, and you’re close enough to see tear streaks down his face.

a few beats pass, “do you mean that?” driver can feel his heart stop with the question.

he’s quick to turn to you, “more than anything,” soon his long arms are tangling around your frame to tuck you under his chin, “i’m so sorry, i’d give up anything for you, please just don’t leave. i can’t lose you…”

the two of you stay like that for a while, head tucked into his shoulder so he can hold you while the both of you cry. it feels good, to just feel your emotions instead of having to rationalize or explain them for once. things would be different this time, driver knows that relying on your forgiveness can only last so long. things had to be different now, otherwise it would all end. the cards from the house you built were weak from the years spent building and rebuilding. maybe the next house would fall just as quick, or maybe the frayed edges have spent the past years learning each crevice in the cards to finally find what stays best. the only way to know is to sit back at the table again to restart.

“okay.”

“okay?” he pulls back, voice almost sounding a bit rosy. you nod and for the first time that day, driver’s lips curl into a sweet smile. he leans forward to gingerly press a kiss atop your forehead while smoothing down your hair with one hand, the other tight around your shoulders. piece by piece, card by card, the two of you will once again put your house back together. the pit in your stomach may not have closed completely, but there’s a bridge there now that makes it less intimidating.

“i’ve always wanted to see the atlantic ocean anyways.”

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