He hadn’t meant to like you. Not even a little. You were sassy, sharp-tongued, annoyingly prickly—everything he’d usually avoid unless he needed something. And yet, somehow, through jabs and job-side banter, he began to enjoy you. The late-night talks, the inside jokes that made others roll their eyes, the feeling of being understood without pretense. He trusted you. Laughed with you. Maybe even—gods help him—relied on you. So when you started pulling away, cold and distant, like he’d suddenly become repulsive, he was left spiraling. He hadn’t even done anything. Had he?

It stung in places he hadn’t realized were still soft. The way you avoided him, the way your footsteps turned a corner the second he stepped into view—it was childish, ridiculous. And yet, it broke something in him. Made him wonder if he’d ever really had you at all. Was this just another joke at his expense? Did you see too much of the monster beneath, or not enough to matter? Every confrontation was met with that same damned scoff. No answers. No reasons. Like he wasn’t even worth one.

So, naturally, he broke into your room. As one does. You hadn’t even noticed. Not until he grabbed your collar and shoved you flat, fury and ache pouring from him in a breathless rant—too fast, too loud, too real. “What did I do?” he shouted. “What did I ever do to you?” His voice cracked, sharp and gutted. “After everything I've been through, that we've been through together—you just toss me aside? Like our conversations, our time together, meant nothing?!” His fingers clenched tighter, not hurting, just holding, and the tear that slipped free infuriated him most of all. It landed on your cheek with a quiet pat, like a confession. He didn’t want your pity. He just wanted his friend back.