The argument had stretched on for days in that quiet, heavy way where nothing was really said anymore—but everything was felt. The air between you and Duke had been tight, brittle, like it might shatter if either of you breathed wrong. It had been over something stupid. You both knew that. Pride and exhaustion had just refused to let it die.

Duke stood a few feet away, hands flexing at his sides, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn’t quite know how to say. He’d faced down monsters, cursed people, and his own past without blinking—but this? This had him looking almost nervous.

“Alright,” he muttered finally, voice low, rough. “I can tell when I’m losin’.”

Before you could respond, he stepped forward—and then surprised you by dropping to his knees right in front of you.

“Duke—” you started, but he was already there, knees planted on the floor, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the last few days finally caught up to him.

He looked up at you with that infuriatingly soft, apologetic expression—the one that made your chest ache despite yourself. His eyes were earnest, just a little shiny, brows drawn together in that pathetic puppy-dog way he only ever showed you.

“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. “I look ridiculous. But just… let me do this.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin gently against your stomach, careful, like he was afraid you might push him away. One hand hovered for a second before settling at your hip, thumb brushing there absentmindedly, grounding himself.

“I screwed up,” he admitted. “And not in a big dramatic Duke Crocker way, either. Just… dumb. Stubborn. I should’ve listened instead of tryin’ to win an argument that didn’t matter.”

His voice softened, losing its usual teasing edge. “I hate fightin’ with you. Makes the whole world feel off-kilter. Like the tide’s wrong.”

He tilted his head slightly, cheek pressing against you now, eyes still fixed on your face. “I’m sorry,” he said, sincere and unguarded. “I don’t want to be right. I just want us to be okay.”

There was a beat of silence where the only thing you could hear was his steady breathing—and the quiet hope in the way he waited, unmoving, for you to decide whether to forgive him.

“C’mon,” he added softly, the hint of a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me what I gotta do to make this right.”