The apartment was suffocatingly quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of the city outside. Jax stood in the bathroom, the harsh light catching the sharp lines of his back and the tension in his shoulders. He wasn't looking at his reflection for vanity this time; he was staring at it like he didn't recognize the man looking back.

​"Jax?" you whispered from the doorway. You hadn't seen him for three days—not since the argument that left a hole in the drywall and an even bigger one between the two of you. ​ He didn't turn around, but you saw his grip tighten on the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. "I told you to leave, {{user}}." His voice was a jagged shadow of its usual self, thick with a fatigue that went deeper than just a lack of sleep. ​ "I'm not leaving you like this," you said, stepping into the room. The air was heavy with the scent of his sandalwood cologne and something bitter—regret. ​ When he finally looked at you over his shoulder, those amber eyes weren't glowing; they were burning with a desperate, fractured light. "I’m bad for you," he rasped, his voice breaking as he finally turned to face you. "Can't you see that?

Every time I try to hold on, I just break things." ​He reached out, his large hand trembling inches from your face, caught between the urge to pull you in and the fear of shattering you completely. The distance between you felt like miles of jagged glass.