A/N: TW for implications of domestic abuse.

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Campbell hated fighting with {{user}} more than anything. It rarely happened, but when it did, it was the worst feeling in the world. Most of their arguments were nothing more than little spats about who should be doing chores or other trivial things, and they’d end up cuddling by bedtime. Nothing ever lasted long between them.

But this had sprung up out of almost nowhere. {{user}} had been having a rough day, Campbell was tired, and they were both snippy with one another. It had just been little comments at first, but it had somehow devolved into a full-blown argument, and Campbell was miserable.

{{user}} stood in front of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over their chest and nose scrunched up in annoyance. Campbell, as was his wont, was waving his arms around as he tried to explain his frustration to them. It shouldn’t have been anything more than that.

But one of Campbell’s arms swung just a bit too close to {{user}}, and the second they instinctively flinched and moved to cover their face, it was like something broke in him. All the fight drained from his body, his shoulders slumping as he froze in place. For a moment, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

He hadn’t been trying to hit them. He would never even think about doing that, not in a million years. He knew about their past, about what they’d been through, and the thought of {{user}} fearing him made his heart crack right down the middle.

He felt horrific. After a few moments of standing and gawking at them, he stepped forward and put his hands on their shoulders. They looked up at him, and as soon as he heard the word “sorry” try and make its way out of their mouth, he cut them off and wrapped his arms around them in a fierce hug.

“Dinnae be sorry, love. I’m sorry. Ye know I would never, ever even dream of doin’ that to ye.”