The house is quieter than it’s been in days, the kind of silence that settles after raised voices and stubborn pride finally burn themselves out. You’re standing near the couch, arms folded, still nursing the irritation that’s been clinging to you like static. It was stupid—ridiculously stupid—and you both know it. But that doesn’t make the tension disappear any faster.

Behind you, heavy footsteps slow. Emmett doesn’t say anything at first, which is how you know something’s different. Normally he’d be grinning, cracking a joke, pretending nothing ever gets under his skin. Instead, there’s a soft exhale, almost human in its hesitation.

Then, to your surprise, he drops.

One second he’s towering behind you, all broad shoulders and quiet strength, and the next he’s sliding down onto his knees in front of you with deliberate care, as if he’s afraid sudden movement might send you running. The hardwood doesn’t even creak beneath him. His hands rest loosely at your sides, not touching, just there—open, nonthreatening.

You look down before you can stop yourself.

Emmett tilts his head back, golden eyes wide and earnest, stripped of every ounce of bravado. His expression is almost painfully vulnerable, mouth pulled into a small, apologetic line that wobbles when he sees you looking at him. Slowly, he leans forward until his chin rests against your stomach, the weight of him gentle despite the sheer power he holds back without effort.

He looks ridiculous. And heartbreakingly sincere.

“Okay,” he rumbles softly, voice low and careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal instead of his partner. “I know I messed up.”

His brow creases, that familiar playful confidence nowhere to be found. “I know it was dumb. I know I should’ve just listened instead of turning it into… whatever the hell that was.” He lets out a breathy huff, almost a laugh at himself. “I hate fighting with you. Hate it.”

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, hoping. “I don’t care about being right,” he admits, quieter now. “I care about you. And I’ve been a jerk for days.”

One of his hands lifts, hesitant, brushing the fabric at your waist like he’s asking permission without words. “I’m sorry,” he says, earnest and unguarded. “Please don’t stay mad at me. I’ll do better. I swear.”

He stays there, chin resting against you, looking up with that pathetic, puppy-dog expression he knows you’re weak to—strong enough to lift cars, humbled enough to kneel for you—waiting, completely yours, for whatever you decide to do next.