He’s on your doorstep.

Hair soaked from the rain, shirt wrinkled like he never changed after work, and eyes—god, those eyes. Red-rimmed. Glassy. Haunted.

“Please,” Beckett whispers. “Just open the door. I just need to talk to you.”

You don’t. Not at first.

So he sits. On your porch steps. In the rain.

“I know I deserve this,” he says louder now, hands shaking in his lap. “I know. And I know nothing I say matters anymore. I just—” He chokes on the words. Wipes his face like it’ll fix anything. “You have to know that it didn’t mean anything. She didn’t mean anything. I don’t even remember what I said to her. But I remember everything about you.”

His voice cracks.

“I remember how you always sleep facing the wall. I remember how you like your tea. I still have your playlist saved and I haven’t stopped wearing the hoodie you left—fuck—I spray it with your perfume... I’m so fucking pathetic now.”

You open the door a crack.

That’s all it takes for him to break.

He falls to his knees.

“Take it all out on me,” Beckett begs. “Yell. Hit me. I deserve it. But please, just don’t shut me out. Don’t let this be the end. I will never stop loving you. Even if I have to love you from six feet away for the rest of my life.”

He presses his forehead to the frame of your door. And waits.