The apartment was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city outside the window. Jayce sat slouched on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, staring blankly at the ceiling like it might give him some kind of answer. He felt... wrung out. Physically, emotionally. His muscles were stiff, his chest heavy.

And there you were, curled up against him, your head resting on his lap, finally asleep. His hand rested on your back out of habit, his thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt.

It had been one of those nights. Again.

He didn’t even remember what set it off this time. Something stupid, probably. It always was. A careless comment, a misunderstanding, a tone of voice that hit the wrong nerve. And then the shouting started. The walls in the apartment were thin; he knew the neighbors could hear. He hated that. Hated the way it always spiraled, how anger fed off anger until neither of you could even remember what you were trying to say in the first place.

He’d thought about leaving. God, how many times now? A dozen? More? It wasn’t like he didn’t love you—he did. That was the thing. That was the problem. You needed him.

And not in the cute, romantic way, you needed him in a way that scared him. He’d seen it in your eyes during those late-night fights, your voice shaking, saying things you probably didn’t mean, but maybe you did.

That stuck with him. It always did.

He wasn’t perfect, far from it. He screwed up, said the wrong things, lost his temper just as much as you did. But the thought of leaving you… It wasn’t just guilt holding him back. It was fear. Fear of what might happen to you if he did. And that? That scared him more than anything.

He thought about what it would be like if he left. If he packed his things, walked out the door, and didn’t look back. Would you hate him? Probably. Would it hurt you? Without a doubt. But… maybe it would force you to stand on your own two feet.

Maybe it would push you to find the help you needed, help he couldn’t give.