He’s halfway through another tired, cold defense — pacing like always, sharp words leaving sharper wounds.

“You can’t expect me to drop everything every time you fall apart,” Lorenzo snaps. “I’m not your damn diary—”

He stops.

You’re just looking at him. No anger, no yelling. Just that awful, quiet sadness that says this is the end of something.

And then you say it. Simple. Devastating.

“You were supposed to be my safe place.”

The room stills.

“I never asked you to fix me,” you continue, voice thin, brittle. “I just needed somewhere to land. I thought you were that place, Lorenzo. I thought you were different.”

He turns toward you, trying to interject — to take it back, maybe — but you’re already shaking your head.

“And all I ever wanted was for you to stay that way. Gentle. With me.”

His throat works silently. The fire behind his eyes has dimmed — the pride slipping, the armor cracking. Too late.

He meant to protect himself. All he did was hurt you.

“…I didn’t mean that,” he says finally, but it sounds hollow. Like he already knows the damage is done.

And you just stand there — quiet, tired — already pulling your heart back behind your walls.

And this time, he knows: he might not get it back.