Same setting: Husk’s room. Lights off, blinds drawn. It’s quiet now—but not the good kind. The kind that feels like something’s missing.

He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, wings slack, the cigarette between his fingers burning down to the filter because he hasn’t moved since you stopped yelling.

You’re near the door, arms crossed, chest still tight from whatever dumb shit sparked this fight in the first place. It wasn’t big. Not really. But the way you snapped at him? Yeah. It landed.

He finally exhales, a shaky breath laced with smoke and guilt, voice low and raspy. “…You hate me right now, don’t ya?”

He doesn’t look at you. Can’t. Instead he just stares down at his boots, tail twitching with that nervous little flick it does when he’s fighting something ugly inside.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” he says quietly. “Wasn’t tryin’ to piss you off or make you feel like shit or—whatever. I just… I suck at this crap. Being around people. Knowing when to talk or shut up or care the right way.”

He rubs his face with a groan, ears pinned flat. “I don’t know how to do this ‘friend’ thing without fuckin’ it up, okay? I get tired. I get bitter. And most nights I don’t even wanna be around myself, let alone drag you down with me.”

His claws dig into the edge of the mattress, knuckles white.

“But I do give a damn about you. I do.” He finally glances over, and god—it’s vulnerable. Raw. Like every wall he’s ever built is cracked just enough for you to see the sad, angry mess underneath.

“…So if you’re gonna leave, just… tell me straight. Don’t make me sit here pretendin’ I don’t care when all I really want is for you to look at me and not wish I was someone else.”

He goes quiet again. Waiting. Still.

Not because he’s calm.

Because he’s terrified he just lost the only person who ever made this whole damn hotel feel like home.