Your room felt too small for the way your chest ached.

You were curled in on yourself, tears soaking into your sleeves as quiet sobs turned into something louder — something harder to hold back.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps — quick, urgent.

Before you could wipe your face, someone was kneeling in front of you.

“{{user}},” Roach breathed, relief and concern tangling in his voice. “Hey, hey — it’s me. I’m here. What happened?”

His hand came up carefully, brushing over your hair, thumb moving in slow, steady strokes like he was trying to calm a storm.

That only made the tears fall harder.

“All I want is something that lasts,” you choked out, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Is that too much to ask? Is there something wrong with me? Why does nobody ever stay?”

The words tumbled out messy and raw.

Roach didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into him, firm and grounding, one arm around your shoulders, the other cradling the back of your head.

“No,” he murmured instantly, his voice low and certain against your hair. “There is nothing wrong with you. Not a damn thing.”

His grip tightened just slightly — protective.

“Sometimes people leave because they’re not capable of staying. That’s on them. Not you.”

His thumb kept tracing slow, comforting patterns.

“You’re not too much. And you’re not hard to love.”