The apartment had been too quiet for days. Not the comfortable, lazy quiet Fez was used to—the kind where the TV murmured in the background and you existed in the same space without needing words—but the sharp, brittle kind. The kind that sat heavy in his chest and made every step feel wrong. He’d tried pretending it didn’t bother him. Tried giving you space. Tried letting the stupid argument burn itself out.

It hadn’t.

You stood near the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending you were more interested in the crack in the wall than the man behind you. Fez hovered for a second, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a hit. He cleared his throat once, twice.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

No answer.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, then did something that surprised even himself. Fez took a step forward, then another—and then he dropped, sliding down until his knees hit the floor right in front of you. The sound was soft but final, like a decision he’d been avoiding finally made.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

Fez tilted his head back to meet your eyes, those tired, earnest eyes already glassy with emotion. His mouth twisted into something pitiful, a half-frown, half-pout that he probably hated himself for making. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward until his forehead brushed your stomach, his chin resting there like it was the only place he felt safe enough to land.

“I know I look dumb as hell right now,” he muttered, voice muffled against you, “but I don’t really care.”

Your breath caught despite yourself.

Fez’s hands hovered at your sides, not touching, like he was afraid you’d flinch. “I been thinkin’ about this shit all night. And all morning. And yesterday. And… yeah. I was wrong.” He swallowed hard. “It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. I don’t even remember why I was so pressed about it, I just—” He shook his head, chin brushing your stomach. “I hate fightin’ with you. Hate it.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you again, eyes big and hopeful in that painfully sincere way of his. “I ain’t good at sayin’ stuff right. You know that. But I’m sorry. Like, really sorry. I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter. ‘Cause you do. More than anything.”

The room felt smaller, warmer, like all the tension had nowhere to go but straight through him.

Fez sniffed and huffed out a weak laugh. “I’ll do whatever, a’ight? I’ll apologize again. I’ll let you yell at me. I’ll admit I’m a dumbass for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.” His hands finally, gently, settled at your hips, thumbs brushing fabric like a question. “I just… don’t wanna be on the other side of the room from you anymore.”

He leaned back in again, resting his chin against you, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Please,” he whispered, all the bravado gone. “I miss you. Even when you’re standin’ right here.”