The argument had burned itself out hours ago, leaving the apartment heavy with that awful, brittle silence that clung to the walls. It had been over something stupid—so stupid neither of you could even remember who started it anymore—but the words that followed had landed sharp anyway. You stood near the couch, arms folded, staring at nothing in particular, jaw tight, still replaying the moment his voice had risen when it didn’t need to.

Bam hovered a few feet away, restless. He dragged a hand through his hair, paced once, twice, then stopped in front of you like he’d finally made a decision he couldn’t back out of.

“Okay… okay,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Before you could say anything, he dropped—actually dropped—to his knees in front of you. The movement was so sudden it stole the breath from your chest. Bam Margera, loud-mouthed, reckless, stubborn Bam, kneeling on the floor like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and stupidly earnest, mouth pulled into that familiar crooked pout he knew you hated because it worked every time. He shuffled closer on his knees until his forehead brushed your stomach, then rested his chin there, arms loosely wrapping around your hips like he was afraid you’d step away.

He sighed, long and dramatic. “I know,” he said quietly. “I was a jackass.”

You stayed still, but your hands loosened at your sides.

He tilted his head just enough to look up at you again, puppy-dog eyes in full force, lashes stupidly long for a guy who spent half his life covered in bruises. “I didn’t mean any of it,” he went on, voice rougher now. “I was tired, and pissed, and I took it out on you. That’s not fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

His thumb traced an absent-minded circle against your side, grounding, familiar. “I hate fighting with you,” he admitted. “Feels wrong. Like… like my chest’s too tight or something.” He huffed out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “And yeah, okay, it was over something completely dumb, which makes it worse.”

Bam pressed his chin more firmly against your stomach, eyes flicking shut for a second like he was bracing himself. “I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, like it mattered more when he didn’t joke it away. “I love you. And I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll let you pick the movie for a week. Hell, I’ll even admit you were right.”

One eye cracked open to gauge your reaction. “Please don’t stay mad at me,” he murmured. “I kinda suck without you.”