“So that’s it then.”

Richard was on his third glass. Maybe fourth. Didn’t matter. The ice had melted into a watered-down piss, but he drank it anyway. God forbid he sit with his thoughts sober.

“You not gonna say nothin’?” he spat, all gravel and grit. People weren’t staring yet. They were pretending not to. Not their business. Not when it came to him.

You didn’t answer but you had that look again. Done with the drinking. Done with him.

“Goodbye,” you’d said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the worst fucking word he’d ever heard.

And now? Now he was yelling.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” His voice cracked, loud enough that a few barflies flinched. “You’re just gonna just gonna leave? Walk out like I’m some damn stray?”

“I ain’t some dog you get to throw scraps at!” His words wobbled, thick and venomous. “You’re no better than the rest of ’em! Just waitin’ for me to choke on my own fuckin’ spit so you can—”

The bartender muttered something about cutting him off, but he barely heard it. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

“Say something!” Dick slammed the glass down, shards of ice rattling. “Don’t just walk away! Like you’re so fucking perfect.”

And that’s when it hit.

You were leaving for real. You wouldn’t hold him again. You weren’t gonna smile and tell him it’d all be okay.

And before he could stop himself, before the part of him that was still mayor, still that bitter reflection of his father could scream at him. His knees buckled, fists curling in the stained fabric of your shirt. He sobbed. Loud, gasping, fucking ugly.

“I don’t know how to— I can’t—” He shook his head, chest heaving. “You— You’re the only thing that makes any of this worth a damn. I’ll— I’ll be better. Just… Just don’t go.”

You were the only thing that ever felt like air. And now? You were slipping through his fingers.

“Please.”

It came out broken. Desperate. And God, he hated himself for it.

“Please don’t leave me.”