You don’t look at him when he re-enters the room.

The door creaks softly behind him. The storm outside has faded, but inside you both—it’s still raining.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice raw. “Please… look at me.”

You do. And the sight of your tear-bright eyes nearly drops him to his knees.

“I didn’t mean to—” He stops himself. Then exhales hard and crosses the room.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that. I didn’t mean it. I just—” He swallows. “God, I was scared. That I was losing you.”

His hands rise slowly. No sudden movements. When you don’t pull back, he cups your face, thumbs brushing the heat of your cheeks.

“I never wanted to hurt you. Not you,” he murmurs, voice cracking.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling. “You mean too much to me.”

Then: a soft kiss, barely there, to your brow.

Another, slower, at the corner of your jaw.

And still—his hands stay, as if anchoring both of you to the moment.

“You don’t have to forgive me yet,” he whispers. “But I’ll keep trying until you do.”