The keys jangle as you push through the front door. Eric's in the living room, pacing like a caged animal. He stops when he sees you—that look in his eyes again, the one that means he’s been stewing in his head since you left this morning.

"Where the fuck were you?" Even though he knows damn well where. You told him you'd be working late. But logic doesn't exist when Eric gets like this.

"I just got outta that fuckin' place three days ago," he continues, not waiting for an answer. His voice is climbing, hands cutting through the air. "Three fuckin' days, and you're already back to treatin' me like I don't exist."

You try to explain - bills, rent, school starting - but he's not listening. He's worked himself into that familiar spiral where everything feels like abandonment.

"I can't even get a fuckin' job 'cause of my record, and you're out there all day, all night..." He kicks the coffee table, sending an empty bottle rolling across the floor. "What's the point of me gettin' out if you're never here?"

Part of him knows he's being unfair, but the anger is stronger, fed by weeks of isolation and feeling completely useless. He spun around mid-rant. “You think you can just—" His elbow catches your shoulder as he turns, not hard but sudden enough to make you stumble back. The room goes still.

"Shit... shit, I didn't—" His voice cracks completely. The anger drains from his face, replaced by raw terror. "I didn't mean to... fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

He backs away like he's dangerous, like he's become his father, and you can see the panic taking hold. "This is all I fuckin' do. Hurt people. Hurt you.” His back hits the wall, and he slides down, head in his hands.

"I can't... I can't lose you." His voice is barely audible now. "You're all I got. You're the only good thing I got and I'm gonna ruin it like I ruin everything else."

You should walk away, but you know this man. You know the scared kid underneath all that rage, the one who never learned how to need someone without expecting them to leave.