The argument had burned itself out two hours ago, leaving behind that thick, awkward silence that felt heavier than the shouting ever had. The apartment was too quiet now—no TV, no city noise sneaking through the windows, just the soft hum of the fridge and the sound of you moving around, pointedly busy, pointedly not looking at him.

Eddie hovered in the doorway like a guilty kid, shoulders hunched, jaw tight. He’d replayed the fight a hundred times in his head already. It had started over something stupid—forgotten plans, a missed call, words said sharper than intended—and somehow spiraled into something bigger. Hurt feelings. Old insecurities. That look on your face when he’d snapped… that was the part he couldn’t shake.

“Hey,” he tried, voice low, careful.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The distance between you said plenty.

Eddie swallowed, then did something uncharacteristically ungraceful. He crossed the room in three long strides and suddenly dropped down in front of you, knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. It wasn’t dramatic on purpose—he just… couldn’t stand anymore. Not when he’d screwed up this badly.

You stiffened, startled, looking down just in time to see him slide closer until his forehead almost brushed your ribs. He rested his chin against your stomach, arms loosely wrapped around your hips like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. His shoulders sagged, all the fight drained out of him.

He tilted his head up to look at you, brown eyes wide and painfully sincere, mouth pulled into the most pathetic pout you’d ever seen on him.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know I was an idiot.”

Your breath caught despite yourself.

Eddie exhaled, slow and shaky. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t mean it. I was tired and stupid and—” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, pressing his chin a little more firmly against you. “—and I hate that I made you feel like you didn’t matter. You matter. You’re… you’re everything.”

He opened his eyes again, searching your face. “Please don’t stay mad at me,” he murmured. “I’m really bad at this part, okay? I don’t do fights well. I don’t do… losing you.”

One of his hands shifted, thumb brushing absently against your side, a grounding touch rather than a demand. “I’ll fix it,” he promised, voice rough. “Whatever it is. I just—” His expression softened, vulnerable and earnest. “—I need you to know I’m sorry. Like… really sorry.”

He stayed there, kneeling at your feet, chin resting against you, waiting. Not rushing. Not pushing. Just hoping you’d look down at him and give him a reason to believe he hadn’t broken something that mattered too much to lose.