The rooftop was wet from rain, slick tar shining in the dim glow of streetlamps below. He sat there anyway, cigarette smoldering between fingers still bruised from the last fight, shoulders hunched, lip split. The city stretched wide and grey around him, but all he could look at was you—standing in the doorway, arms crossed, hair falling like a curtain down to your knees.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he rasped, voice raw with smoke and blood. A grin tugged at his mouth, jagged and tired. “Like I’m a dog dragging mud across your clean floors.”

But he wanted you to. He needed you to.

She’ll walk away. Any sane person would. Look at me—look at what I’ve become. Marked. Bruised. Laughing at my own ruin like it’s a joke. She’ll leave. And I’ll deserve it.

You didn’t. You stepped closer, careful, always careful, because he knew you hated touch, hated closeness. And still—you stayed. That single step was enough to undo him.

He ground the cigarette out against his palm just to feel something sharper than the ache in his chest. His hand trembled as he lifted it, not to touch—never to touch—but to hold it out, half-offering, half-prayer.

“Don’t go,” he said. The words weren’t a command. They weren’t sharp or clever. They were the softest thing he had left. “I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. But—Merlin, I truly need you.”

I’m begging now. Father would spit if he saw me. The Dark Lord would laugh. But I don’t care. I’d crawl. I’d bleed. If she leaves, there’s nothing left.

You tilted your head, studying him with those sharp brown eyes of yours, expression unreadable. He hated how small he felt under your gaze, how boyish. He hated how much he wanted you to forgive him, to stay, to keep standing there in your ripped trench coat with your hair glinting lime in the lamplight.

He wanted to promise you he could change. That he wouldn’t drag you down with him. That this Mark on his arm didn’t already mean the end of him. But lies stuck in his throat, choking. He could only manage the truth:

“I’m tired. I’m so bloody tired. But when you look at me—” His voice cracked. He laughed to cover it. “When you look at me, it almost feels like I’m not damned yet.”

The cigarette smoke curled between you. His hands shook harder. His grin broke. And for a moment, he was just a boy again—blue eyes wide, asking a question he couldn’t say aloud.

Will you stay? Even now? Even when I’m this?