That's What You Get

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Gentle Lie

Mornings were the quietest.

Pete rose before Mikey now, every day, without fail. The first sounds Mikey registered were always the gentle clatter of mugs in the kitchen, the slow boil of the kettle, the faint creak of floorboards shifting under Pete's weight as he moved through the apartment with careful, almost exaggerated calm.

By the time Mikey dragged himself out of bed, there was always a hot mug waiting for him, creamer measured just right, sugar stirred so thoroughly it melted in before he even noticed. A spoon resting beside the cup, handle turned the way Mikey liked it. Always two napkins folded on the counter like Pete couldn't help but overcompensate.

"Good morning," Pete would say, smiling like it wasn't fragile. Like he hadn't grabbed Mikey's wrist hard enough to bruise it just days before. His tone light, casual, as if they could rewind time and pretend none of it had happened. As if he believed repetition could make the past unravel.

And Mikey would nod, murmur a quiet, "Thanks," and sip his coffee like it didn't taste like guilt.

Pete didn't drink. Not anymore. He said it like a mantra now. "Not anymore," as though those two words were enough to seal up the cracks. He attended online meetings, kept a notebook full of steps and promises. He read self-help books with cracked spines and highlighted pages. The kind with titles like The New You or Finding Stillness. He put sticky notes on the fridge. Little affirmations like Progress, not perfection and One day at a time. Some were scrawled in his rushed handwriting. Others were pre-printed, pale yellow with cartoon suns or flowers.

Mikey didn't tell him that he tore one down every time Pete wasn't looking.

Not out of malice. Just control. Something small he could own.

The coffee always came first.

Then breakfast: eggs, toast, fruit if they had it. Pete made it all without asking, like the ritual itself would make things right. He played music in the mornings now, too. Low, easy stuff. Acoustic covers. Songs Mikey remembered from late-night drives or early-morning panic attacks. The kind of music that didn't interrupt silence, only softened it.

Pete didn't hover as much anymore. He asked before touching. He used quieter footsteps, gave Mikey a wider berth in the kitchen, moved slower, deliberate and predictable.

He'd become something like considerate.

And Mikey noticed all of it.

Noticed it the way a person memorizes escape routes. Slowly. Cautiously. Repetition was easy to follow. Safe, even, in a strange and temporary way.

He started journaling again.

Not like before, no long entries or spirals of emotion. Just a few lines at night. Simple observations. Quiet facts. He didn't write Pete's name. Didn't mention bruises or alcohol or the way his body sometimes tensed before his mind even caught up.

Just pieces of the day.

Coffee made. Said he's proud of me. I didn't say it back.

Smiled when I laughed at the dumb commercial. Kept watching me after. Weird.

Told me not to go out alone. Maybe he meant it nicely. Still didn't like how it felt.

He kept the journal tucked beneath a pile of shirts in his drawer. Wrote in it when Pete showered, or while he ran errands. The entries were short. Slanted handwriting. Controlled. A tether to reality when everything else felt too much like hope.

Some moments were good. Or close to good.

They had dinner on the couch that Thursday. Pete had made spaghetti, overcooked it a little, sauce too thick, and Mikey teased him for it. Pete rolled his eyes, muttered something sarcastic under his breath, and they both laughed. Real laughter. Light, unguarded. For a second it felt like before. Before bruises. Before the apologies.

Something warm curled in Mikey's chest. Something unmistakably dangerous.

Pete noticed, maybe. Or maybe he just wanted to hold the moment a little longer, because after the laughter faded, he reached across the cushion to tuck a strand of Mikey's hair behind his ear.

Mikey froze.

It was just for a second. Just a subtle shift in posture. A flicker.

But Pete saw it. He pulled his hand back fast.

"Sorry," he said, voice low. "Habit."

Mikey nodded like it didn't mean anything. Like he hadn't felt his stomach flip in the space between contact and memory.

Later that night, Pete couldn't find his phone charger. He searched the house with growing frustration, digging through drawers, lifting couch cushions, muttering under his breath.

Then he slammed a drawer too hard.

The sound echoed sharp through the hallway.

Mikey's breath caught.

Pete stopped.

He stood there a second too long, hands braced on the counter, back tense. Then, almost deliberately, he exhaled and stepped away.

"I'm sorry," he said. Quieter now. "That wasn't... I'm not mad at you. Just tired."

Mikey offered a faint smile. "It's okay."

He wrote it down that night.

Drawer slammed. Angry. Only for a second. Said sorry. Still made me jump.

The next morning, he started moving things back into the bag.

Quietly. Slowly. One item at a time. Essentials first: his ID, a spare charger, the extra set of keys Dani had given back before she left. His favorite hoodie, folded tight and pushed to the bottom. A travel toothbrush. Deodorant. Socks.

Not because he was leaving.

Just in case.

It became a ritual, almost. One small thing each day. When Pete was in the shower, or focused on cooking. A bottle of Advil. His journal, tucked into the side pocket. A second hoodie. A copy of Dani's address, folded in half and hidden between t-shirts.

Pete didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't say anything.

Some nights, Pete read in bed. Sometimes aloud, sometimes just under his breath. He'd highlight lines, murmur reflections. Ask Mikey what he thought about forgiveness, about change.

Mikey would nod. Offer a vague answer.

He didn't say what he was really thinking, that he'd stopped believing in permanent change a long time ago. That sometimes, healing looked too much like pretending. That sometimes, you said "thank you" to keep the peace.

Pete kissed Mikey's forehead that night, just a soft brush of lips. "I'm really trying," he whispered.

Mikey nodded.

He didn't say I know.

He didn't say anything at all.

Later, when Pete was asleep, curled on his side, one arm slung over Mikey's pillow like he didn't even notice he'd taken more space, Mikey sat up and watched him breathe.

The shadows in the room were soft, still. The kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful. Just... careful. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mikey's hands were in his lap, fingers twisting the edge of his blanket. His chest felt tight in that familiar, slow-burn way. Not quite panic. Just pressure.

Pete shifted in his sleep, face turned toward the wall. Peaceful. Human.

And Mikey hated how easy it would be to believe this version of him was the real one.

He leaned forward, close enough that his voice wouldn't wake him. Just close enough that it felt like confession.

"I want to believe you," Mikey whispered.

But the rest of the sentence stayed trapped in his chest.

I want to believe you.
But I've seen how this ends.
And this time, I'll be ready.