The car was too quiet. City lights slid past the windows in blurred streaks, and the only sound inside was the low hum of the engine — and your heartbeat. You hadn’t meant for it to turn into an argument. But it did. You’d asked him why he always pulled you away from things… why he interfered… why he acted like he didn’t even want you near him sometimes. And he gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles went pale. He didn’t answer. Not right away. “Say something,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “If you hate me that much, just—” His jaw clenched. “I don’t hate you.” The words came out rough. Strained. Like each one scraped up his throat. You turned your head toward the window. “It feels like you do.” A long, heavy silence. He exhaled slowly — like he was bracing himself before walking into gunfire. “I’m… bad at this,” he muttered, brows drawn together. “At… talking. At… people.” You frowned. “At what?” He swallowed. “Feelings.” The word sounded foreign in his mouth. His grip tightened again, like he was trying to hold himself together. “I’ve never… confessed anything before,” he said quietly. “Never wanted to. Never had to. There was never anyone I—” He stopped. The air shifted. You blinked. He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated with himself. “I’m trying,” he said, voice tense — too sharp, too blunt, too raw. “I’m trying to tell you that you make things… harder. That you make me lose focus. That every time you’re near me I—” Your chest tightened. Harder. Lose focus. It sounded like a complaint. Like you were a problem. Your throat stung. “So I’m a burden to you?” you whispered. His head snapped toward you — eyes wide — panic flickering there. “No. That’s not— That’s not what I meant.” He struggled over every word, like they were knives in his mouth. “I don’t know how to say it right,” he said, breath shaking. “When I look at you, everything else stops mattering. And that’s… dangerous. For both of us.” His voice broke for half a second. “So I push you away,” he finished quietly. “Because if anything happened to you because of me… I’d never recover.” You stared at him. It didn’t sound like love. It sounded like regret. Distance. Loss. He looked straight ahead — shoulders tense, eyes tight — like he’d just confessed the worst thing he’d ever done. And somehow… …it still felt like he’d rejected yo