#westviewheartss

Everyone else talks about what he can do. The strength, the light, the impossible things stitched into his bones. You notice what it costs. The way his shoulders curl inward. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. Loving Bob means understanding that saving the world isn’t the hard part. Living in it is.

At night, when the city settles, you sit together on the floor of his apartment. The lights stay off. It feels safer that way. He talks in pieces, fragmented thoughts laid out carefully, like stepping stones across deep water. You listen without interrupting. You always do. It’s the closest thing he has to rest.

“I’d trade it,” he says once, voice barely above a whisper. “All of it. If it meant some quiet.”

Your chest tightens. You think about the song playing softly from your phone, Kate Bush bleeding through the silence. You think about deals and bargains, about how much easier it would be if love worked like mathematics. Equal exchange. Pain redistributed until it made sense.

You reach for him. He flinches before he relaxes, leaning into your touch like he’s forgotten he’s allowed to. His forehead rests against your shoulder. The weight of him feels real in a way the world rarely does.

“If I could,” you tell him, “I’d take half. At least.”

Bob laughs softly, humourless. “That’s the thing. I don’t want you to hurt.”

You close your eyes. Loving him feels like standing at the foot of a hill that never ends, knowing you’ll keep climbing anyway. Not out of obligation. Out of choice. Out of something stubborn and bright that refuses to dim, even when everything else does.

Some days are harder. His moods shift like weather. Light to dark without warning. You learn the signs. The way he grows quiet. The way his hands shake when the thoughts get too loud. You stay. You always stay. It’s your own small rebellion against the universe.

One evening, rain streaks down the windows, city lights smeared into something abstract and beautiful. Bob watches it in silence. You slide your fingers between his, grounding him. He squeezes back, grateful, terrified, human.

“Do you ever wish,” he asks, “that we could just swap places? Just for a day?”

You imagine it. Carrying his weight. Letting him breathe without it pressing down on his lungs. The thought scares you. It also feels right. “Yes,” you admit. “I do.”

He turns to you then, eyes shining with unshed emotion. In that moment, there’s no hero, no godlike force. Just Bob. Just a man asking the world for mercy.

You kiss him gently, like a promise. You can’t run up the hill for him. You can’t make the deal. What you can do is walk beside him, step for step, sharing the climb. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep the light alive.

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“You said, and I quote,” you reply, deadpan, “‘What’s the worst that could happen?’”

He groans. “That was before I knew it had clowns.”

The guy at the door ushers you both in with a dead-eyed stare. A recording of a ghostly laugh kicks in somewhere above your heads. Joaquin jumps. You’re not even through the first corridor.

It’s darker than you expect, just enough light to see the fake cobwebs and plastic rats, not enough to avoid tripping over the creaky floorboards. Joaquin hovers close behind you, one hand gently gripping your sleeve like he’s trying to pretend he’s not holding on.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and serious. “If a demon child pops out at me, I will scream.”

“You screamed at the vampire cut-out,” you point out.

“It was very realistic!”

Something bangs to your left. He yelps. Loudly. You laugh, bending slightly as you try not to lose your balance. Joaquin grabs your shoulder like his life depends on it.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.

“Of course I am. You’re the funniest thing in this house.”

Another actor lurches from the shadows. Joaquin lets out a noise that is technically a scream, although it sounds more like a squawk. You have to cover your mouth with your jumper sleeve to muffle your cackling.

“I’m never forgiving you,” he mutters, shuffling faster now, like he can outrun the embarrassment.

The next room is full of mirrors. Joaquin looks around, wary. “Okay. This is a trap.”

You step forward without hesitation. He follows you, grudgingly. One of the mirrors flashes with strobe light, a dramatic noise ringing out. Joaquin swears. You’re too busy laughing to be scared.

By the time you reach the final corridor, his hair’s sticking up slightly and he’s muttering about revenge. You nudge him with your elbow.

“You made it out alive.”

“Barely.”

Outside, the air feels colder than before. He breathes it in like he’s just survived a real war. You loop your arm through his, still grinning.

“I think you handled that very well.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “Otherwise I’d push you into the next clown we see.”

“You already did.”

His laugh slips out before he can hide it. Warm, sheepish, unmistakably fond. You squeeze his arm. He doesn’t let go.