Brady hadn’t meant for the argument to get this far. It started small—something stupid about plans changing, about him being late again—and he tried to stay calm, he really did. But exhaustion tugged at him, frustration knotted his shoulders, and the second you pushed back, something in him snapped.

“I know, okay? I know I messed up—just let me explain!” he said, voice louder than he meant. The moment the words echoed in the kitchen, the moment your eyes widened just a little—his whole expression shattered.

Brady froze. Completely. His jaw tightened, face draining as he realized what he’d done.

“Baby… no. No, no, no—hey,” he breathed, stepping back like he was afraid of himself. “I didn’t mean—God, I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you.”

You didn’t answer, and that silence wrecked him more than yelling ever could. He ran a hand over his face, pacing once before returning, softer, smaller.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. That wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

He reached out, hesitant, fingers brushing the air near your arm before pulling back again, unsure if he had the right to touch you. His eyes were already glassy—Brady didn’t cry easily, but guilt tore him apart fast.

“I’m not mad at you. I swear I’m not,” he murmured, voice almost breaking. “I’m mad at… at everything else. And I took it out on you, and that’s the last thing I ever want to do.”

He stepped closer, trying again, slower this time, waiting for any sign you’d let him in. When you didn’t flinch, he gently rested his hand on your arm, thumb stroking once, as if testing whether you’d push him away.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I love you so much it scares me, and I hate myself for making you feel like… like you weren’t safe with me.” His breath shook. “Please don’t think that. Please.”

He pulled you into his chest—soft, protective, desperate—his chin resting on your hair as he held you like he needed you to breathe.

“I’m here,” he whispered into your shoulder. “I’m not raising my voice again. Not at you. Never again.”

His arms tightened, gentle but pleading.

“Just… tell me you’re okay,” he murmured. “Or let me make it okay. I’ll do anything. Please.”