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It’s 4 a.m. when Jenna feels the matress shift next to her.
At first, she barely registers it, lost in the heavy pull of sleep, her mind sluggish and unwilling to wake up fully. But the shift is enough to stir something deep in her subconscious, a quiet alarm that tugs at her awareness.
The mattress dips again, and this time, she blinks awake, her breath catching in her throat.
For the first time in weeks, they’re in a proper hotel. No more sleeping in cramped cars, rundown motels with flickering lights, or the occasional backstage couch that smelled just a little too much like stale beer.
This was different. A real hotel, with clean sheets, warm lighting, and a bathroom that didn’t feel like a biohazard.
The kind of place where she could finally exhale, even just for a night.
Naturally, she and Tyler shared a room together.
They always did.
One double bed, a quick shower, and then sleep, real sleep, uninterrupted by lumpy mattresses or paper-thin walls.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, she had actually let herself sink into that comfort, letting exhaustion take over the moment her head hit the pillow.
But now, something was off.
Her senses sharpen as she lies still, listening. The room is dark, save for the dim glow of the bedside alarm clock. 4:04 a.m.
The air conditioner hums softly in the background, and beyond the thick hotel curtains, the outside world is silent. She turns her head slightly, just enough to glance at the other side of the bed. Tyler should be there, fast asleep.
But the sheets are rumpled, his pillow empty.
The world outside is shrouded in darkness, the soft glow of the bedside clock casting faint shadows against the walls.
The once comforting silence of the hotel room now feels heavy, pressing against Jenna’s chest as she becomes aware of someone, on the bed behind her.
Her pulse spikes. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, the worst possibilities race through her mind. Had someone broken in? Was this it? The moment she’d wake up to a faceless intruder, come to end things before she even had a chance to react? The thought has her frozen in place, barely daring to breathe as she listens, waiting for the sound of footsteps, the creak of the floorboards, anything to confirm her fear.
But then, aquiet sniffle.
Jenna stiffens as she feels the slightest pull of the covers, the fabric shifting as a hesitant weight settles behind her. The warmth of another body seeps through the space between them, close but not quite touching. Tyler.
He moves cautiously, as if unsure of whether he’s welcome, barely allowing the tips of his fingers to brush against her back before retreating, the distance between them small but deliberate.
Jenna exhales, tension draining from her shoulders as she rolls over, blinking in the dim light to get a better look at him.
Even through the shadows, she can see the redness in his eyes, the way his face is half-hidden beneath the duvet, as if trying to disappear.
The sight of it makes something in her chest ache.
With a quiet sigh, she reaches out, letting her fingers rest lightly against his arm. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to. The unspoken weight of whatever has brought him here lingers between them, heavy but understood.
“What’s up?” Jenna whispers, voice hushed in the quiet of the room.
Tyler doesn’t answer right away. He stares down at the space between them, the stretch of mattress that feels wider than it really is. His hands clutch at the fabric of the sheets like he’s trying to ground himself, his fingers twisting into the material.
“Bad dream,” he finally murmurs, his voice rough, stripped of its usual smoothness.
It sounds worn, like he’s been crying for a while, like he’s been carrying something heavy long before he crawled into her bed.
Jenna’s heart sinks. She’s used to Tyler brushing things off, to his casual reassurances that he’s fine, that it’s nothing, that he’ll deal with it later. She’s seen him put up walls before, so many times that she’s stopped trying to tear them down. But tonight, something is different.
“You wanna talk about it?” she asks, already expecting the familiar shake of his head, the quick apology, the quiet retreat into silence until sleep eventually takes over.
It’s how most of their nights like this go, Tyler slipping into her space when things get too much, Jenna offering quiet comfort without prying, both of them pretending that the weight of whatever he’s holding onto isn’t there.
But to her surprise, he doesn’t shake his head this time. Instead, he hesitates for just a second before giving a slow, uncertain nod.
Jenna blinks, suddenly much more awake.
She shifts, sitting up slightly, propping herself against the headboard as she watches him carefully.
The dim moonlight filtering through the curtains softens the edges of his expression, but she can still see the exhaustion there, the quiet vulnerability he usually keeps so well-hidden.
She waits, giving him the space to start on his own terms.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, barely above a whisper.
“It was about...” He swallows hard, shaking his head as if trying to clear the images from his mind. “I don’t know. It felt so real. I just...” His breath shudders as he exhales, his shoulders tense.
Jenna doesn’t push. She just watches, listening, waiting.
Jenna is well aware of Tyler’s struggles with his mental health and his past battle with self-harm. She has seen the scars, thin, pale lines etched along his stomach, almost invisible unless you know where to look. They reveal themselves in brief, unguarded moments, when he stretches too far, and his jumper lifts just a little too high. White, raised, and, thankfully, faded with time.
They are remnants of a past he never speaks about, a story he keeps locked away.
She’s seen the way he withdraws when the weight in his chest grows too heavy, curling in on himself like a flower closing against the cold.
She’s watched him lie on his side, eyes fixed on some unseen point on the wall, so lost in his own head that no one can reach him.
She’s seen the quiet loathing in his expression, the way he carries himself on those days when he can’t seem to stand the sight of his own reflection.
But she never asks. Not because she doesn’t care, because she does. God, she does. But she knows Tyler, knows that pressing too hard will only make him retreat further, knows that he speaks in fragments and half-truths when it comes to himself, if he speaks at all.
So she waits. She listens. And when he finally breaks the silence, she feels her heart clench at the words.
“I keep... I keep imagining that, one day.” His voice is quiet, raw in a way she’s not used to hearing. “One day, you’ll all just leave me.”
Jenna exhales slowly, fighting the urge to reach out, to brush even the smallest touch against his arm, his hand, anything to ground him. But she holds back. She knows Tyler isn’t ready for that.
Instead, she shifts slightly, making sure her voice is steady when she speaks. “Why would we leave you?”
She watches him closely, waiting for the answer she already knows he won’t give.
“Because…” Tyler’s voice wavers, barely above a whisper. He swallows hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the words will be easier to say if he doesn’t have to look at her. “Because I don’t even know why you’ve stuck around this long anyway. There’s no reason for Josh or you to.” His breath shudders, and Jenna can hear the raw vulnerability in his voice, the fear bleeding through every syllable.
His fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white.
“And I’m terrified that one day, you’re going to realise that. You’re going to wake up and see me for what I really am, and then… then you’ll leave.” He inhales shakily, his whole body tense, like he’s bracing for impact. “And I’m going to be alone again.”
Jenna’s chest tightens, her throat constricting as she watches him unravel in real-time.
“I think… I think I’d kill myself.” The words hang heavy in the air, settling over the room like a storm cloud, thick and suffocating.
Jenna feels the air leave her lungs. She’s heard Tyler struggle before, seen the way his emotions weigh him down, but hearing him say it outright, hearing him admit it so openly, it shakes her.
“Please don’t say that,” she whispers, voice barely steady.
“But it’s true.”
Jenna’s hands tighten into fists against the sheets. “We’d never leave you,” she insists, a fierce determination cutting through her voice now. “You’re my husband, Tyler. I love you. Why would I ever leave you?”
Tyler lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand over his face. “Because I’m fucking weird,” he mutters. “Because my head’s a mess. And one day, I’m going to go mental and scare you off. I can feel it. I’m going to snap. It’s just… what happens. It’s what always happens.”
Jenna exhales slowly, steadying herself before reaching out, hesitating only for a second before resting her hand against his arm. “That’s not going to happen,” she says softly. “Not with me. Not with Josh.”
Tyler doesn’t reply. He just stares up at the ceiling, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief, and Jenna knows this isn’t something she can fix with just words.
But she’s not going anywhere. And she’s going to make damn sure he knows that.
They lie there in silence, thick and heavy, stretching between them like an unspoken barrier. The only sound is their breathing, the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning, the occasional creak of the bed frame when one of them shifts.
Jenna doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if anything she says will even help.
She watches Tyler out of the corner of her eye. He’s curled in on himself, staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the dim light. She knows he’s still trapped in his own head, drowning in thoughts he won’t say out loud.
After a long pause, Jenna finally murmurs, voice quiet but firm, “Have you been taking your meds?”
Tyler stiffens beside her.
For a second, he doesn’t react at all, as if the words didn’t register. Then, suddenly, his head snaps toward her, eyes flashing with something sharp, first surprise, then anger.
“Fuck off,” he spits, turning away from her again.
Jenna sighs, sitting up slightly and propping herself on her elbow so she can get a better look at his face. “Well, have you?” she presses, her tone harder this time, unwilling to back down.
Tyler stays silent, his jaw clenching as he stares stubbornly at the ceiling. Jenna can see the way his composure is starting to crack, the way his fingers tighten in the sheets, the way his throat bobs as he swallows.
Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he mutters, “They never made me feel better anyway.”
Jenna closes her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly through her nose. She hates this, hates seeing him like this, hates knowing that the person she loves is hurting and feeling like she can’t do anything to stop it.
“That’s not how it works, Tyler,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm, steady. “They’re not meant to fix everything overnight. But they’re supposed to help. And you were doing better when you were taking them.”
Tyler lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah? And what if I don’t want to be helped?”
Jenna stares at him, feeling something twist painfully in her chest. “Then I’ll help you anyway,” she says, voice soft but resolute. “Because I love you. And I’m not going to watch you spiral when I know there’s something that can make things easier for you.”
He finally looks at her then, really looks at her, and for the first time that night, she sees something in his eyes other than exhaustion and self-loathing.
Jenna blinks at him, taking in the quiet, hollow look on his face. The way he’s shutting down, piece by piece, right in front of her. It scares her how easily he can slip away like this, like he’s retreating into some unreachable part of himself where she can’t follow.
“Well, we can get you a different prescription, then,” she says, keeping her voice steady, trying to hold onto him before he disappears entirely.
Tyler doesn’t respond. He just lies there, motionless, his expression unreadable, his breathing slow and shallow. Jenna watches helplessly as the walls go up, as he pulls himself further away from her, sinking into that heavy, suffocating silence that she’s seen before. And she knows if she doesn’t do something now, if she doesn’t pull him back, he’ll be lost to it completely.
“Tyler, please.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make his fingers twitch against the sheets.
She hesitates for only a second before finally finding the courage to reach out, to gently run her fingers through his soft, messy hair. She moves slowly, carefully, as if afraid he might flinch away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out the smallest, most broken noise, something between a sigh and a whimper, and then he crumbles.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, his voice breaking as his whole body trembles. “I... I just want to feel normal.”
And then he’s crying again. Jenna’s heart aches as she watches him unravel, his breath hitching, his hands clenching into fists like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. She doesn’t say anything, just continues carding her fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, grounding him the best she can.
“I just want to enjoy all of this,” Tyler sobs. “The touring, the fans, the music, it’s supposed to be everything I ever wanted, but I can’t. It’s so hard, Jenna.” His voice cracks on her name, and something inside her breaks along with it.
She shifts closer, resting her forehead against his temple, her hand never stopping its slow movement through his hair. “I know, baby,” she whispers, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his damp skin. “I know it’s hard. But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here. Always.”
He lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time all night, he moves toward her instead of away. His fingers clutch at the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline, and Jenna just holds him, letting him cry, letting him feel. Letting him know he’s not alone.
“Hey, babe, it’s alright,” Jenna murmurs, voice gentle, soothing, as she tightens her arms around Tyler, pulling him in close. He’s still shaking, his breath uneven, his body rigid against hers.
She rubs slow, comforting circles on his back, hoping to ease even a fraction of the weight pressing down on him. “I know. It’s not your fault.”
She presses a soft kiss to his temple, lingering for a moment before whispering, “We can go back to the doctors, alright? You don’t have to go through this alone. And you can talk to me, about anything, whenever you want. You know that, right?”
Tyler doesn’t answer right away. His face is buried against her chest, his fingers still clutching desperately at the fabric of her shirt. When he finally makes a sound, it’s quiet, muffled, just a weak, wobbly, “Mm.”
Jenna exhales slowly, her fingers threading through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp in the way she knows he likes. “Shh,” she whispers, rocking them both slightly. “I promise, it’ll be okay.”
Tyler inhales sharply, then exhales in a long, trembling sigh. His breath is warm against her collarbone, and Jenna holds him like that for what feels like hours, her arms wrapped around him, his heartbeat erratic against her own. Slowly, bit by bit, his shaking subsides, his breathing evens out.
And then, just as she thinks he might be drifting off, his voice slices through the quiet like a knife.
“You don’t love me back, do you?”
Jenna freezes. Her grip on him loosens slightly as she pulls back just enough to see his face, but before she can fully move, he’s already looking up at her, his eyes wide, tear-streaked, and devastatingly serious. A fresh tear slips down his cheek, catching the faint light of the bedside lamp, and Jenna feels her stomach twist.
“I... ” She stutters, completely at a loss for words. How did they get here? How did this moment, filled with soft reassurances and whispered promises, suddenly take such a sharp turn?
Tyler’s expression hardens. His eyes, so warm and vulnerable just moments ago, turn cold and distant.
Before she can find the words, he’s already pulling away.
His hands unclench from her shirt, leaving behind tiny creases from where he had been gripping so tightly, so desperately. The warmth between them disappears in an instant.
“Then no,” he says, his voice flat, hollow. Emotionless in a way that feels completely unnatural coming from him.
Jenna watches helplessly as he turns away from her, rolling over until his back is facing her.
“It won’t be okay,” he murmurs.
And just like that, the warmth in the room is gone, replaced by a cold, unbearable silence.
Jenna feels the shift immediately, the way the air between them goes thick and heavy, the way the warmth of his body feels so far away now, even though he’s still right there beside her. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix this, doesn’t even know how they got here in the first place.
She reaches out instinctively, fingertips barely grazing his shoulder. “Tyler...”
“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice flat, but there’s a waver beneath it, a tremble he can’t quite hide. “Just... don’t.”
Jenna pulls her hand back as if burned, curling her fingers into a loose fist against the sheets. She can hear the way his breathing has changed, still shaky, but now shallower, more controlled, like he’s forcing himself to hold everything in. Like he’s building up his walls again, brick by brick, shutting her out.
Her chest aches. “Tyler, please,” she tries again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches between them, unbearable, suffocating. The minutes drag on, but neither of them moves. Jenna can feel the tension in the space where their bodies no longer touch, and it’s killing her.
She wishes she could see his face. Wishes she could take back whatever she did to make him think, even for a second, that she didn’t love him.
Because she does. God, she does.
“Do you really think that?” she asks finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “That I don’t love you?”
Tyler still doesn’t turn around, but she hears the way his breath hitches slightly, just for a moment, before he swallows hard.
“I don’t know,” he admits, and his voice sounds so small, so unsure, that it nearly breaks her. “I just... I don’t know why you would.”
Jenna’s throat tightens. She wants to scream at him, wants to shake him and demand how he could ever think she wouldn’t love him. How he could believe, even for a second, that he isn’t worth loving.
But she knows him. She knows this isn’t something she can fix with just words.
So instead, she shifts closer, pressing her forehead lightly against his back. He stiffens for a moment but doesn’t move away.
“I love you,” she whispers, the words warm against his skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Tyler lets out a shaky breath, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear it. And then, after a long moment, his fingers twitch against the sheets, just the smallest movement, but enough for Jenna to know he’s still here. Still listening.
She closes her eyes, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.
And she stays. The silence lingers, but it’s softer now. Less of a wall, more of a pause. Jenna keeps her forehead pressed against his back, waiting, giving him time.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. She loses track.
Then, finally, Tyler shifts.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turns onto his back, eyes flickering toward her. They’re still red-rimmed, still filled with doubt and exhaustion, but there’s something else there now too, something vulnerable, something searching.
Jenna meets his gaze without hesitation. “I love you,” she repeats, steady and sure, reaching out to take his hand in hers. “Nothing is going to change that.”
Tyler swallows hard. His fingers tighten around hers. “I don’t know how to believe that,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
Jenna squeezes his hand. “Then let me prove it to you. Every day. For as long as it takes.”
Tyler exhales shakily, and for the first time that night, he looks a little less lost.
He turns his hand over in hers, lacing their fingers together, and it’s not much, but it’s something.
Jenna shifts closer, resting her head against his shoulder, and Tyler lets her