Short of Breath: Chapter Two - The Sound of Silence

We’ve seen the panic; now it’s time to see the aftermath. In Chapter Two, we switch gears to Thatcher Reed’s perspective. What happens when the woman you’re finally connecting with disappears into the night?

Thatcher is used to being looked at—usually as a curiosity or a trophy—but Ivy was different. Or so he thought. From the quiet clink of wine glasses to the devastating silence of an empty bathroom, we dive into the head of the man left behind. Being a "giant" isn't always about power; sometimes, it’s about the crushing weight of being a person someone is terrified to love.

Chapter Two

The Sound of Silence

Thatcher

The wine in my glass is breathing, but I’m not.

I stand at the kitchen island, the marble countertop feeling unnervingly cold under my palms. I’ve lived in this apartment for three years, and I’ve never noticed how loud the hum of the refrigerator is until right now. It’s a low, persistent thrum that fills the gaps where Ivy’s voice is supposed to be.

I check my watch. Twelve minutes.

Twelve minutes is an eternity when you're waiting for a woman who looks like she’s made of glass and starlight. She said she had a small bladder. She made a joke about it being hereditary, her nose crinkling in a way that made me want to stop time just to memorize the expression. I laughed, because everything she said at dinner felt like a gift I wasn't expecting to open. But twelve minutes is a long time to spend in a room that doesn't have a book or a television in it.

I pick up my wine glass, the stem looking like a toothpick in my grip, but I don't drink. I just stare at the liquid. At dinner, I watched the way the candlelight caught the amber in her eyes. I spent most of the main course trying to regulate the volume of my own voice because I didn't want to boom at her. I didn't want to be the giant in the room for once. I just wanted to be the guy sitting across from the most interesting woman I’d met since moving to this city.

But the Mountain label is hard to shake. It’s a shadow I carry that grows longer every time I walk into a room.

My mind drifts back to a girl I dated last summer, a fitness influencer named Calla. Calla loved my height, but she loved it the way an architect loves a skyscraper—as something to show off. She spent our entire third date taking photos of her hand next to mine and posting them with captions about "King Kong and his Queen." She didn't want a boyfriend; she wanted a landmark. She wanted something to stand next to so she could look even smaller, even more delicate, even more "viral." To her, I was a prop. A mountain to be scaled for the view, not a man with a pulse.

Then there was Sarah, who used to joke about how "convenient" it was to date me because I could carry all her grocery bags in one hand. She never asked me how I felt about being treated like a pack mule. She never saw the way I had to duck my head just to fit into her world.

Ivy didn't look at me like a landmark. Or at least, I thought she didn't.

"Ivy?" I call out. My voice rumbles through the hallway, heavy and deep. I hate how much space it takes up. Sometimes I wish I could dial myself back, shrink my shoulders, and exist in a frequency that doesn't make the glassware rattle. I want to be a whisper, but I was born a shout.

No answer.

I set the wine down, the base of the glass hitting the marble with a dull thud that sounds too much like a final gavel. My heart is doing this slow, heavy thrum against my ribs—the kind of beat that usually precedes a hit on the football field or a confrontation I don’t want to have. I walk toward the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the thick rug I bought specifically because I know how much noise a man my size makes just by existing.

I reach the bathroom door. I don't knock yet. I just listen.

The silence is thick. It’s the kind of silence that has weight. I imagine her inside, maybe leaning against the door, maybe as overwhelmed by the night as I am. I saw the way she looked at my furniture—the oversized leather couch, the dining table that took four men to move. I saw the flicker of something in her eyes—that frantic, haunting look of a woman who is convinced she doesn't belong in a room this nice, or with a man who actually sees her. She probably thought I was too much. Or probably felt like she was being swallowed whole by a life that was built for someone twice her size.

"Ivy? Are you okay in there?" I knock. Lightly. For me, that means the door doesn't come off its hinges. "You've been gone for a while. Should I call a medic, or are you just hiding from the wine?"

I try to keep my tone light, but the alarm in my own head is starting to scream. Not because I think I’m better than her, but because I’m terrified I’ve already failed the don't be a monster test. I saw the way she flinched when our fingers brushed earlier. I thought it was electricity. I thought it was the same spark that was making my blood run hot. Now, I’m starting to think it was a short circuit. A warning.

"Ivy, I'm coming in," I say, the playfulness draining out of my voice.

I turn the handle. It’s locked.

The click of the lock is a barrier I shouldn't cross, but the silence is a threat I can't ignore. I reach into the pocket of my slacks and pull out my multi-tool. I pop the lock in three seconds—a trick I learned as a kid when I was constantly being called to help neighbors who had locked themselves out of high-up windows or top-floor apartments.

The door swings open.

The bathroom is empty.

The first thing I notice isn't the open window. It’s the smell. Her perfume—something that smells like vanilla and rained-on pavement—is still hanging in the air, a ghost of the woman who was just here. It’s a sweet, delicate scent that has no business being in this masculine, stone-heavy room. Then I see the counter. There’s a smudge on the marble where a shoe must have slipped.

Then, I see the window.

The sash is pushed all the way up. The curtains are fluttering in the night breeze like they’re waving goodbye.

I cross the room in two strides, my heart dropping into my stomach like a lead weight. I lean out the window, my shoulders barely fitting through the frame. I look down at the rusted iron of the fire escape, expecting to see a crumpled silk dress or a pool of blood. I expect a tragedy.

Instead, I see nothing but a stray cat darting under a dumpster and the distant, rhythmic clack of heels on the pavement three blocks away.

She didn't fall. She climbed.

She literally chose a rusted, dangerous iron ladder and a dark alleyway over sitting on my couch and drinking wine.

I pull myself back inside and sink onto the edge of the tub. The porcelain is cold, biting through the fabric of my trousers. I look at my hands—these massive, capable hands that can lift a literal ton, hands that I spent the whole night trying to keep from looking threatening—and I feel completely useless.

I tried so hard tonight. I spent an hour researching that restaurant because I knew the booths were deep and the lighting was low. I wanted her to feel safe. I wanted her to see the man, not the mountain. I listened to her talk about her boutique catering business, and for forty minutes, I forgot that I was six-foot-nine. I forgot that I was an anomaly. I was just a guy who loved the way she used her hands when she got excited about a specific type of garnish.

But to Ivy St. Claire, I’m just a catastrophe waiting to happen.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. My thumb hovers over her name. I want to text her. I want to ask Why? I want to tell her that I don’t care that she’s small, or that her business failed, or that she’s clearly terrified of the space I take up. I want to tell her that I’m more than my height, that I have a heart that beats just as fast as hers.

I hit 'Send' on a simple message: Are you okay? Please just tell me you made it home safe.

A red exclamation point appears instantly.

Not Delivered.

I try again. Same result.

I’m not a genius, but I know what a block looks like. She didn't just leave; she erased me. She climbed out a window and hit a button to make sure I could never reach her again. It’s a clean break. A total ghosting.

I walk back into the living room, and the apartment feels cavernous now. The significant furniture she noticed earlier just feels like a bunch of heavy, lonely obstacles. I look at the two wine glasses on the counter. Hers is still full, the deep red liquid catching the overhead light. Mine is also untouched.

I think about the way she looked at me when I opened the restaurant door. There was a split second where the fear was gone, replaced by something that looked like wonder. I thought we were building something. I thought for once, I wasn't the giant. I thought I was worth more than just a passing glance at a freak show.

I pick up her glass and pour the wine down the sink. The red liquid swirls down the drain, looking like a wound. I wash the glass. Then mine. I dry them with a towel that’s too big for a normal person, but fits my hands perfectly.

"I wasn't going to hurt you, Ivy," I whisper to the empty kitchen.

I go to my bedroom and sit on the edge of my oversized bed. Everything in my life is built to accommodate my size, but tonight, it all just feels like a reminder of why I’m alone. I’m a titan in a world of humans, and even when I try to shrink, I still take up too much room.

I think about the fire escape. I think about the courage it took for a five-foot-four woman in heels to scale a building in the dark just to get away from me. I should be insulted. I should be angry. But all I feel is a crushing sense of disappointment—not in her, but in the reality of being me.

Most people are afraid of the dark. Ivy is afraid of the light I was trying to shine on her.

I lay back and stare at the ceiling. I’m not going to chase her. You don't chase someone who jumps out of a window to escape you. That’s how you become the monster they think you are. You don't hunt down the girl who blocked you before she even hit the sidewalk. But as I close my eyes, I can still feel the vibration of her voice in my ribs. I can still see the way she tilted her head when she was thinking.

She thinks she’s a footnote. She thinks she’s too small for this story. She’s wrong. She’s the only thing in this entire city that feels big enough to matter.

I reach over to my nightstand and pick up a small, leather-bound notebook. I don't usually write. I build things. I fix things. I occupy space. But tonight, the silence is too loud to sit in without doing something to fill it.

I stare at the blank page for a long time, the pen feeling like a needle in my hand. I think about her standing in my bathroom, looking at the window and deciding that a three-story drop was safer than a conversation with me. I think about the way she looked at my dining table—not with admiration, but with a quiet, heartbreaking exhaustion, like she was already tired of trying to fit into a world that didn't have a place for her. I finally realize that she wasn't just running from my height; she was running from the fear that she would never be enough to stand beside it.

I open to a blank page and write one thing: The view from the top is lonely when the only person you want to see is running the other way.

I close the book, the sound of the leather cover clicking shut echoing like a finality. I listen to the hum of the fridge, the distant siren of a police car three blocks over, and the frantic beating of my own heart. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being the landmark. I’ll go back to walking through doorways sideways and being the guy people ask to reach the high shelves in the grocery store. I’ll go back to the King Kong jokes and the women who want to date me just to see if the rumors are true.

But tonight, I’m just a man in an empty apartment, wondering how a girl so small could leave a hole this big. I’m wondering if she’s home, if she’s safe, and if she’ll ever realize that the mountain she ran from would have spent the rest of his life making sure she never had to climb again. I stay there, staring at the ceiling, until the city lights outside start to fade into the gray of a morning I’m not ready for.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: February 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix