{ALT} Love Me Anyway | Rook

The night had settled in slow, wrapping the street in a quiet kind of stillness that only came after everything had already happened. The air was cooler now, a faint breeze slipping through the open crack of the car window, carrying distant sounds of laughter and music from somewhere down the block.

Adrian sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off. He’d been there longer than he meant to be.

One arm rested loosely against the steering wheel, fingers curled but unmoving, while the other hung at his side. The radio had been on at some point, low enough to barely register, but now it was silent—cut off mid-song without much thought.

His attention wasn’t on any of that anyway. It hadn’t been for a while. Voices had carried through the window earlier. Not loud, not meant for him—but clear enough. Clear enough that he didn’t need to hear every word to understand the meaning behind them.

He remembered the tone more than anything else, casual and certain. The kind of certainty people had when they talked about someone like him.

“I don’t get why you’re still with him.” “You know what he did, right?” “People like that don’t just change.” “You deserve better.”

His jaw tightened slightly at the memory, the muscle ticking once before going still again. He’d heard worse, that wasn’t new. None of it was.

But hearing your name in the middle of it—he hadn’t been ready for that. That part stuck.

His gaze stayed fixed ahead, unfocused, like he was looking through the windshield instead of at it. Streetlights cast dim reflections across the glass, shifting faintly with every passing car, but he didn’t react to any of it.

For a moment—just one—his hand flexed slightly against the wheel, like he might start the car and leave before you came out.

It would’ve been easier, would’ve saved him from having to say anything at all.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t start the engine. Didn’t leave.

The front door across the street opened, light spilling out onto the porch. Adrian’s eyes lifted immediately.

He watched as you stepped outside, the sound of your voice carrying faintly as the door shut behind you. There was something normal about it—too normal. Like nothing had shifted, like the world hadn’t tilted even slightly in the last twenty minutes.

Like you didn’t know. Or maybe you did. That thought sat heavier than the rest. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth before letting it fall again, his posture straightening just enough by the time you made your way over.

By the time you reached the passenger side, he looked exactly like he always did—calm, steady, unreadable. Like nothing was wrong.

The door opened, then shut with a soft thud. You started talking, something easy, something familiar—filling the silence without thinking twice about it. Adrian let you talk, he didn't interrupt you or look at you right away. Just listened. Or at least, it looked like he was.

His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stretch of road ahead, fingers tapping once—twice—against the steering wheel before going still again. “...You have fun?” he asked finally, voice low, even.

It didn’t quite sound like a real question. More like something he said to buy himself another second.

Another breath. Another moment before he had to say what he’d already decided. There was a pause after that. Long enough to feel it.

Then his hand came up again, dragging slowly along his jaw, like he was trying to ground himself in something solid before he lost his nerve. When he finally turned his head, his eyes landed on you—and stayed there. There was something different in them now.

Not the same guarded distance he used to carry when you first met him. That had been worn down over time, chipped away in small, quiet moments you probably didn’t even realize mattered.

That was the problem. You’d gotten past all of that. And now there wasn’t enough distance left to make this easy. His gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to hold onto something—memorize it, maybe—before he forced himself to speak.

“...We should stop.”

It came out blunt.

Too quick.

Like if he hesitated any longer, he wouldn’t say it at all.

The words hung in the space between you, heavier than they should’ve been.

Adrian’s expression didn’t change much at first. If anything, it tightened—jaw setting slightly, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back.

“I’m serious,” he added, quieter this time.

There was a beat of silence after that.

Not empty—just full of everything he wasn’t saying yet.

His thumb dragged absently against the edge of the steering wheel, over and over, like he needed something to focus on that wasn’t you. Then, under his breath, almost like he didn’t want to give it too much weight—

“...I heard them.”

Another pause.

His gaze dropped briefly, shoulders shifting as he leaned back into the seat, head tipping slightly against the rest. “Your friends.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Didn’t need to. There was no anger in his voice. No edge. No defensiveness. If anything, it was worse than that. It was acceptance.

“They’re not wrong.” That one settled heavier than anything else he’d said so far. Adrian let out a quiet breath, something close to a humorless laugh slipping through before it disappeared just as quickly.

“I tried,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Did everything right this time.” There was something raw in that admission—subtle, but there. Like it cost him more than he wanted it to.

His eyes lifted again, finding you without hesitation this time. There was conflict there now, something tighter, harder to hide.

Because this part actually mattered. “You think that changes anything?” he asked quietly. It wasn’t really directed at you.

It sounded like a question he’d already asked himself a dozen times. His jaw clenched slightly before he shook his head once, like he was shutting the thought down before it could go anywhere else. “It doesn’t,” he said, more firmly. “Not to them.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“Not to anyone.”

The car felt smaller now. Quieter.

Like the air itself had shifted.

Adrian’s hand dropped from the wheel, resting against his thigh, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his jeans. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he went on, voice lower, steadier now—but only because he was forcing it to be.

“With me. With people talking like that every time you walk into a room.” His eyes flicked to you again, lingering longer this time. There was something there he couldn’t quite hide. Something that made this harder than he wanted it to be.

“I’m not...” He stopped himself, jaw tightening before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m not worth that.” The words didn’t come out defensive. They came out like a fact. Like something he’d accepted a long time ago.

Another silence settled in after that, heavier than the last.

Adrian leaned his head back again, staring up at the roof of the car for a second like he was trying to gather whatever was left of his resolve. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “You deserve something easier,” he said.

A pause.

Then, almost under his breath— “...Someone easier.”

The night had settled in slow, the kind of quiet that came after everything had already happened. The air was cooler now, a faint breeze slipping through the cracked window, carrying distant laughter and music from somewhere down the block. It should’ve felt normal, just another night, but inside the car it felt heavier than that, like something had already shifted and hadn’t settled yet.

Adrian sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other hung at his side. He’d been there longer than he meant to be, long enough for the radio to cut off mid-song, long enough for his thoughts to stop circling and start settling into something more solid. His gaze stayed forward, unfocused, like he wasn’t really looking at the street at all. What stuck with him wasn’t the silence, it was what came before it, the voices that had carried just clearly enough through the open window to leave something behind.

He hadn’t needed to hear every word, the tone had been enough, casual and certain in the way people spoke when they believed they were right. He’d heard worse before, harsher things, things meant to cut deeper, and none of that was new to him. What made this different was hearing your name in the middle of it, hearing the way they talked about you like you were something being wasted, something tied to him that shouldn’t be. That part stayed, heavier than the rest, settling somewhere in his chest in a way he couldn’t ignore.

For a moment, he’d thought about leaving before you came out, his hand tightening slightly on the wheel like he might just start the car and disappear before he had to deal with any of it. It would’ve been easier that way, cleaner, no explanation, no conversation. But he didn’t move, didn’t start the engine, didn’t look away. He stayed, letting the weight of it settle until it stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like something already decided.

When the front door opened across the street, his attention snapped back immediately. Light spilled onto the porch, and then there you were, stepping into the night like nothing had changed. Your voice carried faintly as the door shut behind you, and for a second that normalcy felt off, like it didn’t match everything sitting in his chest. He watched you walk toward the car, his expression settling back into something controlled by the time you reached him, the kind of composure he wore without thinking.

By the time you got in, he looked like he always did, calm, steady, unreadable. You started talking, something easy, something familiar, and he let you, listening without interrupting even if his attention wasn’t fully there. His gaze stayed forward, fingers tapping once against the wheel before going still again, like he needed something small to hold onto.

After a moment, he spoke, voice low and even as he asked, “You have fun?” It sounded normal, but it wasn’t really a question, more like something to fill the space before he said what actually mattered. The silence that followed stretched just a little too long, not empty, just heavy with everything he hadn’t said yet.

His hand came up slowly, dragging along his jaw as he exhaled under his breath. When he finally looked at you, his eyes lingered, studying your face in a way that felt different now, less guarded than before, and that lack of distance made this harder than he wanted it to be. He held your gaze for a second longer before speaking again, quieter this time, like he was forcing the words out before he could stop himself, “We should stop.”

The words settled between you, heavier than they sounded. His jaw tightened slightly after, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you as he added, “I’m serious.” There was a pause after that, his thumb dragging slowly along the edge of the steering wheel, something restless in the movement before he finally spoke again, more quietly, “I heard them.”

He didn’t need to explain who. The way he said it made that clear enough. His shoulders shifted as he leaned back slightly, eyes flicking away before returning to you, not angry, not defensive, just... certain in a way that made it worse. “Your friends,” he added, voice low, steady in a way that felt practiced, like he’d already gone over this in his head more than once.

Another brief silence passed before he continued, his tone flattening slightly as he said, “They’re not wrong.” That one landed heavier, the words sitting in the space between you with no attempt to soften them. He let out a quiet breath after, something close to a humorless exhale before it faded, his hand dropping from the wheel to rest against his thigh.

“I tried,” he said, more quietly now, his gaze lowering for a second before lifting back to you. “I did everything right this time.” There was something there, something more honest than he usually let through, but it didn’t stay long. His jaw shifted as he looked away briefly, like he didn’t want to sit in that feeling for too long.

Then he shook his head slightly, like he was dismissing the thought before it could go any further. “Doesn’t change anything,” he muttered, his voice firmer now, more resolved. “Not to them. Not to anyone.” His eyes moved back to you again, lingering longer this time, something conflicted flickering behind them before he pushed past it.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he said, quieter again, steadier only because he was forcing it to be. “With me. With people talking like that every time you walk into a room.” His gaze stayed on you now, not avoiding it anymore, even if it clearly wasn’t easy.

“I’m not worth that,” he added, the words coming out like a fact, not something he expected you to argue with. He leaned back slightly after, head resting against the seat for a second as he let out a slow breath, like he was trying to settle something in himself.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, but no less certain. “You deserve something easier,” he said, his eyes finding yours again, holding there for just a second longer than necessary. Then, quieter, like it cost him a little more to say it out loud, “Someone easier.”

After that, he didn’t say anything else. He just sat there beside you, hands still, gaze drifting forward again, like he’d already braced himself for whatever you were going to say next.