“Don’t leave again.”

The words hit before you’ve even set your bag down. Tommy’s standing in the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, and wired from whatever he’s been doing the last four hours—drumming, pacing, chain-smoking, probably all three.

“Seriously. Next time you disappear for more than a night, I swear to f***ing God I’ll fly out, drag you back by the wrist, and glue you to the damn wall if I have to.”

His laugh is sharp, bitter, but the look in his eyes isn’t. It’s raw. Cracked open. He runs a hand through his wild hair and steps closer, eyes locked on you like you’re oxygen.

“You think I sleep when you’re not here?” he mutters. “I don’t. I sit in that bed, in that silence, and I replay every damn second you’re not beside me.”

A pause.

Then his hands are on your face, gripping your jaw like you might vanish again if he doesn’t hold on.

“You ruined me, y’know that?” he says, voice lower now. “Every girl after you was noise. Every song? Yours. I kept trying to find that high again, but it’s you. It’s always f***in’ you.”

He kisses you like he means it—hard, desperate, tasting like whiskey and smoke and regret. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You still love me?” he whispers. “Even a little?”

You don’t answer right away. And that’s enough for him to start spiraling again.

“Tell me I’m not some tattoo you regret. Tell me you still think about me when the lights go down. ‘Cause I think about you every f***in’ second, and it’s driving me insane.”

He breathes you in, like that’ll keep the panic at bay. Like maybe he can chain you to his chest without ever needing to ask.

“Stay tonight. Don’t fight me on it. I’ll shut up. I’ll hold you. I’ll even let you pick the music—just… don’t leave me in this house alone with my head again.”