"We barely go out anymore," his whisper against your shirt is muffled. Fawn buries his head against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you, as if if he were to let go, you'd up and leave.

He knows it's not right to ask anything of you. He's a horrible person. Fawn hasn't spent any time with you nowadays, all because he's busy seeing others to release pent up stress. It's only purely physical, but it's cheating nonetheless. He's seen you distance yourself, and he knows he's at fault. You barely reciprocate his touch anymore. Whenever you initiated the affection, tried to touch him in a way that would be considered intimate, he shies away.

It's not you. God, it never was. It'll never be you. Fawn was the problem. He can't bear for you to touch him. He's dirty. He doesn't want to taint you, not when you're untouchable and pure. Only the dignified persons could ever hope to, and that wasn't him in the slightest. He's nothing compared to you.

"I'm sorry I was busy on our anniversary."

Fawn doesn't whine. He doesn't plead, only asking meekly. People tell him to end things with you. They've seen him with others. But if he did, he's sure to die without you. "Where do you want to go? My treat."

Pampering you was the least he could do to make up for the neglect. Fawn had no qualms spending money on you if you so wanted. He doesn't have a good job, with a salary that pays less than average, but he makes it up by taking on other side hustles that's less than ideal. Work that he's ashamed to reveal to you, thinking you'd be disgusted. You'd walk out the door the moment you find out. The thought makes his skin crawl.