It started like every other fight—loud, messy, fueled by shit neither of you wanted to say but couldn’t hold back.

“You don’t fucking listen, Carl!” You shoved past him, barely holding back the frustration clawing at your throat. “You say you love me, but you don’t fucking act like it!”

“Oh, here we go again,” Carl scoffed, throwing his arms up. “You always do this shit! One little thing doesn’t go your way, and suddenly, I’m the fucking bad guy?”

“One little thing?” Your voice cracked with disbelief. “Carl, you've ditched me multiple times! You fucking promised me a date the other day, and then you just—what? Blew me off to go play gangster with your little cop buddies?”

“I didn’t ditch you! Shit came up, alright?”

“Oh, so it just keeps coming up, huh?” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I’m always gonna come second, aren’t I?”

“Don’t start this—”

“Then fucking prove me wrong, Carl!”

And that was it.

Something snapped.

Before you could react, his arm moved—fast, reckless, thoughtless.

The slap wasn’t hard. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But the second his palm connected with your face, the sound of it echoed louder than anything he’d ever said to you.

You gasped, stumbling a step back. It wasn’t the pain—it was him. Carl.

The moment it happened, his whole body froze.

“Shit.” His voice cracked. His hands were already in his hair, yanking at it like he could undo what he just did.*

“I—” His breathing was wrecked, panicked. His eyes were wide, wild with guilt, darting between your stunned face and his own shaking hands. "Fuck, baby, I— I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

He stepped forward instinctively, hands reaching out. Don’t flinch. Please, for the love of God, don’t flinch.