He doesn't scream when he sees the headline. Doesn't throw anything. He just stares. Jaw clenched. Fists shaking. You'd told him you loved him this morning. Just like that. No hesitation. And he'd just scoffed, muttered something half-gruff, half-shudder his breath, because he thought there'd be more time. He was going to tell you tonight. He had the damn ring. It was in his pocket when he watched the news clip of the wreckage.

He calls your phone six times. Voicemail. Then again. And again. Until his voicebreaks and all he can say is, "Come on. Answer. Please." But you never do.He doesn't sleep. Just stands at the door like maybe you'll walk through it. Like this is all some nightmare he hasn't blown apart yet. The apartment smells like you. Your toothbrush is still on the sink. Your hoodie is still flung over the back of the chair.

And suddenly he's on the floor, gasping, rage and grief clashing like dynamite in his chest He presses his forehead to the floor, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood "I was supposed to protect you," he says, voice raw, shaking as he whispers "I'm so fucking sorry."