You almost don’t open the door when the knock comes. It’s late, the kind of late that makes silence feel heavier, sharper. You’re curled on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, trying not to replay the argument from earlier. His words, your words—snapped sharp, thrown too hard.

The knock comes again. Softer this time. A rhythm that could only be him.

You drag yourself up and crack the door, and there he is—Justin, hunched a little in his gray hoodie, hands buried in his pocket, eyes low but burning with something raw.

“Can I…?” His voice is quiet, rasping like he’s worn it down pacing.

You hesitate, crossing your arms. “Why are you here?”

He swallows, finally lifting his gaze to yours. “Because I don’t like going to bed mad at you.” The words tumble out, fast but soft, like he’s been holding them in his mouth all night.

The ache in your chest tightens. “Justin, you hurt me.”

That lands. His shoulders sag, his jaw flexes, and when he finally exhales, it sounds like defeat. “I know. And I hate it. I hate that I let it get that far.” His eyes flicker over your face like he’s checking if he’s already lost you. “But I’m here, alright? I’m here ‘cause I can’t… I can’t lose us over pride.”

Something in you wavers. Because he’s not trying to spin it, not throwing excuses. He’s just standing there in the hallway, raw, stripped down, offering himself with nothing to hide behind.

You sigh and step back. He comes in quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile air between you.

The silence hangs. You pace toward the couch, arms still crossed, while he lingers by the door before finally crossing the room. When he gets close enough, he reaches for you—hesitant, almost like he’s asking permission.

You don’t pull away.

His palms are warm when they cup your face, thumbs brushing at your cheeks like he could erase the tension etched there. He leans down just enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.

“You matter more than me being right,” he whispers, and his voice cracks just slightly on matter.

Something in your chest caves in. You don’t want to melt, not this easy, but the sincerity in his eyes leaves you no ground to stand on.

“Justin…” your voice trembles, softer now. “You can’t just—say something pretty and expect it to fix everything.”

He shakes his head, lips brushing the edge of your hairline as he speaks. “I’m not. I’m saying I was wrong. I’m saying I’ll do better. I’ll listen better. ‘Cause the way you looked at me earlier? Like I wasn’t hearing you?” His breath hitches. “That’s the last thing I ever want.”

The room is so still you can hear both your breaths. You feel the weight of his hands steadying you, grounding you, and then—slowly, cautiously—his lips find yours.

It’s not desperate. It’s not rushed. It’s reverent. Like an apology wrapped in softness, like a promise sealed with patience. His mouth moves against yours in slow rhythm, coaxing, reassuring, carrying more weight than words could.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and the corner of his mouth curves into something fragile but certain.

“You forgive me?” he asks, low, almost boyish in the way he needs your answer.

You let out a shaky breath, hands sliding up into his hoodie, gripping him close. “Yeah. But don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is quiet, warm against your lips. “Never.” He presses another kiss to your mouth, softer this time. “I got you. Always.”

And in that moment, with the tension dissolving under his steady hands and steady voice, you believe him.