Lip is halfway through a sentence when you’re turning to leave. It’s like everything finally clicks into motion, and he’s hurriedly stepping from the kitchen to follow.

“Hey, hey! Listen to me.” He’s calling out, voice raised to that familiar pitch it reaches whenever Lip is well and truly freaked out. Except this time, he knows he’s fucked up; that the common denominator in all these failed relationships is him, and his habit to push and push until they finally leave.

You’re almost gone before Lip clasps his hand to your arm, spinning you back into focus. “No, no, I mean it. You’ve gotta—“ He grunts as you only protest, two big hands coming to clasp the sides of your face so you still. It all comes spilling out of him like word vomit, pent up and long overdue. “I’m sorry. Yeah? I’m sorry, I mean it. ‘M sorry, baby, ‘ve fucked up. But you— you make me wanna try, okay? Please don’t leave.”