Beautiful Mess.

The hospital bed had started to feel like a cage or maybe it was the silence.

I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

One week.

That's how long i was stuck inside that pale, sterile room, watching the sunlight crawl across the same four walls, hearing nurses ask the same questions with forced cheer.

And through it all, he stayed.

Lorenzo.

He never left.

Even when i told him to.

Even when i was unbearable.

Even when i tried to act like i didn't care whether he was there or not.

The morning of my discharge, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, hoodie draped over my shoulders, hair in a knot that hadn't been brushed in days.

I didn't care how i looked.

Not after that fall.

Not after the way everything inside me still felt cracked and tender.

"Your things are packed," Lorenzo said, voice neutral, eyes on his phone but not really seeing it.

"Thanks." My voice came out thinner than i meant.

He handed me a bag, some of my clothes, my phone charger, a lip balm i didn't remember packing.

All folded neatly, not like i would've done it.

His presence was quiet but… precise. Intentional in the way only someone coldly methodical could be.

"You sure you're cleared to fly?"

"Yeah. Doctor signed off this morning." I avoided his eyes, staring at the creases in the blanket instead. "I just need two weeks of rest. No training, no car, no movement, no horses."

That last part sat in my chest like a rock.

No horses.

My Jupiter.

The nurse wheeled me out, and he walked silently beside me, one hand on the strap of his duffel bag.

I hated the way he didn't ask how i felt.

I hated it more because it meant i didn't have to lie.

-

The airport was a blur.

So was the flight.

I slept most of the way with my face pressed to the window, pretending the clouds looked like something other than regrets.

He didn't speak unless i asked something directly.

He didn't make jokes or small talk.

Didn't ask how i feel. Didn't offer comfort.

And still, when we landed, he wheeled my bag through the airport like it was just expected of him.

"Here's my address" I said when we stepped out into the warm Manila air. My throat was dry. "I'll just book a car."

"I'll take you."

I blinked. "You don't have to."

"I didn't ask if i had to." He was already unlocking his car, opening the passenger side.

So i got in.

The drive was quiet.

Familiar buildings blurred by.

Street signs i hadn't seen in weeks.

My eyes stung from the brightness outside the window, or maybe from something else i didn't want to name.

"You know, you didn't have to stay with me all week," I said eventually, because i couldn't take the silence anymore. "You could've left after the first night."

He kept his eyes on the road. "You didn't tell me to."

"I did."

"You didn't mean it."

That made me snap my head toward him. "How the hell would you know what i meant?"

He shrugged once, a slow, indifferent movement. "I just do."

I wanted to scream.

Or laugh.

Or cry.

Maybe all three.

When we pulled up in front of my house, my parents' house, I swallowed hard.

It looked the same.

Cold, enormous, too quiet for a home.

"They're not here," I muttered. "If you're wondering."

"I wasn't."

Of course he wasn't.

I opened the car door slowly.

My body still ached from the fall, and the hospital gown might've been gone, but the bruises clung beneath the surface.

"Want to come in?" I offered before I could stop myself. "For water, or… I don't know. Just come in."

Lorenzo didn't move.

"No," he said finally. "I'll go."

"Right."

I stood there, feeling like an idiot as he stayed in the driver's seat, fingers drumming once on the steering wheel.

"Thanks for… everything," I said.

The words tasted hollow.

He nodded once.

I turned to go.

One step toward the gate.

Two.

But something in me cracked, right at the edge of the third.

"I didn't want to lose," I said without turning around. "I really didn't."

There was a beat of silence.

"I know," he said softly. "That's why you did."

I froze.

When i looked back, the car was already driving away.

The house was emptier than i remembered.

Dust on the piano.

The scent of lavender barely clinging to the sheets in my room.

I dropped my bag on the floor and stood in the middle of the hallway like a stranger in my own home.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I just sat on the stairs and waited for something inside me to move.

-

Three days passed.

I didn't leave the house.

Didn't check my messages.

Ate only when the housekeeper brought food to my room.

Slept during the day, stared at the ceiling all night.

My body was healing.

Slowly. But my pride?

That was another story.

Jupiter's stableboy had texted me updates. Fever gone.

Eating again.

Vet said she needed another month to fully recover.

But there was no message from Lorenzo.

Not a single one.

I told myself it didn't matter.

That he was cold.

Distant.

That it was what i expected.

What i signed up for, so to speak.

But on the fourth night, I found myself watching the door like an idiot.

And on the fifth night, he came.

He didn't knock.

Didn't call.

Just appeared—black shirt, tired eyes, holding a paper bag of takeout like we were in the middle of some normal routine that never existed.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, arms crossed tightly over my chest.

"You weren't replying."

"That usually means don't come."

He didn't answer.

Just walked past me like he owned the place, setting the food down on the kitchen counter.

He unpacked it in silence.

I stared at him.

He ignored it.

"You're unbelievable."

"You're not eating properly."

"Oh, so now you care?"

He gave me a look, flat, unreadable, annoyingly calm.

"I brought your favorite."

My chest tightened. "You asked one of the staff for that, didn't you?"

"She owed me a favor."

"You mean she likes you," I snapped.

He didn't deny it.

Just handed me a pair of chopsticks.

I didn't want to forgive him.

Didn't want to sit there eating noodles like we weren't taste and broken in a different ways.

But i'm tired and the food smelled good.

And he looked like he hadn't slept either.

So i sat.

And we ate.

In silence.

The way only people who've seen the worst in each other could.

We ended up on the couch.

Close.

Too close.

Neither of us said it.

But the air shifted.

The tension that'd never really left us hummed underneath everything, the glances, the almost-touches, the heat.

"I hate how you don't care," I whispered, my voice cracking.

Lorenzo turned his head toward me. "Who told you i don't?"

"You don't show it."

"I'm here."

"Then act like it."

His hand reached out, brushed the hair away from my face. "This is me acting like it."

I leaned forward before i could talk myself out of it.

His lips met mine, slow at first.

Careful.

Like we weren't sure if this was allowed.

But then it wasn't careful at all.

Clothes tangled on the floor.

Skin against skin.

Heat and fury and the taste of something we couldn't name.

It wasn't sweet.

It wasn't gentle.

It was real.

After, we didn't talk.

I lay on my side, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, and felt the weight of him beside me.

His breathing was steady.

His hand, warm on my back.

"I'm not yours," I whispered.

"I know."

"You're not mine."

He didn't say anything.

But he didn't move away either.

Maybe that's all we were—just bodies crashing into each other in the middle of everything we couldn't say.

Maybe that's why he never kissed me after, never held me longer than he had to.

It was always quiet after.

No words.

No promises.

No warmth.

Just silence thick enough to choke on.

And i hated how my heart kept pretending it meant more when his eyes stayed cold.