You throw the mug first. It explodes against the wall in a shower of ceramic and old coffee, spraying both of you. Ghost doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re such a fucking coward!” you scream. Your voice is raw, sharp enough to hurt your own throat. “You act like you don’t care, like none of this matters, like I don’t mean a goddamn thing to you!”

He’s already pacing—fast, agitated, eyes blazing under that mask like hell’s about to pour out of him. He turns sharply toward you. “You think this is about caring?” he spits. “You think I don’t fucking feel anything?”

You grab the nearest picture frame—one of those stupid moments, fake smiles, some rare downtime—and hurl it. It misses his head by inches and cracks against the door.

“YOU DON’T ACT LIKE IT!” you shout. “All you do is push me away until I’m begging you to let me back in! And I’m sick of it! I’m DONE!”

He rips the mask off.

It hits the floor like a guillotine’s blade.

“You don’t get to talk to me about pushing people away,” he roars, closing the distance between you in two furious steps. “Every fucking time I let my guard down, you twist it! You turn me into this monster and then wonder why I’m angry all the time!”

“Because you ARE a monster!” you scream in his face. “You’re a fucking psycho who doesn’t know how to love anything without destroying it!”

His fist slams into the wall beside your head—hard enough to dent the plaster. Your body jolts, but you don’t back down.

“You want to talk about love?” he growls, chest heaving, spitting rage. “I fucking love you, you idiot! And I hate that I do! I wish I could rip you out of my head and throw you off a cliff!”

You shove him with both hands. “Then DO IT! Walk away! Let me go, Ghost!”

He grabs your wrists—rough, shaking—and shouts, “I FUCKING CAN’T!”

The silence after that is so loud it hurts.

Your breathing matches his—fast, panicked, uneven. You stare at each other like you don’t recognize what the hell you’ve become.

You want to slap him. Kiss him. Set the whole room on fire.

“I hate you,” you whisper, trembling.

His eyes soften for half a second. Just half. “I know.”

“I fucking hate you,” you say again, louder, breaking. “You make me feel like I’m going crazy. Like I can’t breathe when you’re gone and I can’t think when you’re near.”

His grip loosens. Your hands drop.

“You break everything you touch,” you say, tears burning hot trails down your cheeks. “And I keep letting you touch me anyway.”

He exhales sharply, like that hurt more than anything else tonight.

You turn your back.

“Leave,” you whisper. “Just go.”

And he almost does.

Almost.

But his boot steps falter behind you, and then there’s the sound of something else breaking—his own knuckles against the table this time, a grunt of pain, a roar of frustration. He’s unraveling, violent and silent and broken in the way only you can make him.

And then his arms are around you, crushing, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear. His forehead presses against the back of your neck, and you feel his body quake.

“Don’t go,” he chokes out. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

Your fists clench at your sides.

“I still hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your skin. “I know.”

You lean back just an inch, letting your head fall against his shoulder. There’s blood on his knuckles, glass on the floor, your heart in pieces—but for some reason, you stay.

It’s not love. Not in the clean, pure way it’s supposed to be.

It’s chaos. Obsession. A car crash you walk into willingly, over and over.

But it’s yours.

And his.

And it burns.