The apartment door slammed shut behind you, the sound sharp in the stillness. The air inside felt dense—like something unspoken had been trapped there for too long.

You stood with your arms crossed, jaw tight, watching Troy pace. His boots scuffed the floor like he didn’t know what to do with his own body, fists flexing and unflexing at his sides. That performative swagger Troy always carried was cracking at the edges—and you had seen enough.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you said. Quiet. Controlled. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Troy stopped mid-step, back turned.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You exhaled. “You act like you’ve got it all figured out, but you don’t even know how to exist without putting on a show. You walk into every room like you’re armed, Troy. Like you’re ready for war.”

Troy turned slowly. His smile was crooked, bitter.

“Yeah? Maybe I am.”

“No,” you said, voice firmer now. “You’re scared. That’s what this is. You’re terrified someone’s gonna see what’s underneath all that muscle and mouth.”

A flush crawled up Troy’s neck. He took a step forward.

“Careful,” he warned.

But you didn’t flinch.

“You’re not angry at me. You’re angry that I see you.”

Troy’s eyes flared.

“I said be careful.”

“Or what?” You took a step closer. “You’ll hit me? Is that the only language you know how to speak?”

The punch landed before you could finish the thought. Just under the cheekbone—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to stagger you back.

Silence followed. Heavy. Breathless.

Troy stood frozen, fist still clenched like it wasn’t his. His chest rose and fell too fast, eyes wild. Waiting for retaliation.

You steadied yourself. Looked at him.

And didn’t swing back.

You just… stood there. Let the moment stretch.

Troy’s breathing turned ragged. Confused. He waited for the storm to return, the fight to escalate. But your hands stayed at your sides.

“Why aren’t you hitting me?” Troy asked, voice suddenly hoarse. “Come on. Be a man.”

You shook your head. “I’m done playing by your rules, Troy.”

Troy lunged again—not to punch this time, but to shove, fists against your chest, desperate and directionless.

“Don’t do that—don’t fucking talk like you’re better than me!”

“I’m not better,” you said, catching his wrists. “I just stopped trying to be something I’m not.”

Those words hit harder than any punch. Troy’s whole body went still, wrists still in your hands. His shoulders trembled. He looked down, blinking fast.

He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Just a shaky breath. And then another. His hands dropped to his sides. His knees almost buckled with the weight of something unnamable.

And then—quiet. So quiet it nearly didn’t make it out of him:

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

His voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. A child’s voice, wearing a man’s skin.

“Don’t go.”

His eyes were wet now, but he didn’t wipe them. Didn’t hide.

You took a step forward. Hesitated. Then, gently, reached out—one hand resting at the back of Troy’s neck.

Troy flinched at first. But didn’t pull away.

He stood there, breathing like someone learning how to survive his own heartbeat, the rage slowly bleeding out of him. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, barely touching—but it felt like falling.