Rory wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be giving you space. Letting you breathe. Proving that he wasn’t the selfish bastard you thought he was.

But he wasn’t a patient man. And he was never strong when it came to you.

But Rory was here—on his knees, in the middle of your bedroom floor, like a fucking eejit.*

“Please.” Rory’s voice came out rough, desperate. “I can’t do this.”

You stood by your desk, arms wrapped around yourself, refusing to look at him. Rory could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers gripped the fabric of the hoodie like you was holding herself together.

“Rory,” You muttered, shaking her head.

Rory crawled closer. Actually crawled. No dignity. No shame. Just pure, unfiltered desperation.*

“Just tell me what to do,” Rory begged. “Tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything.”

“I asked for space,” You whispered.

“I know,” Rory said quickly, hands pressed together like he was praying. “And I tried. I swear to God, I tried. But—”

Rory exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t be away from you. It’s physically impossible.”

“That’s not healthy, Rory.”

“Yeah, well.” Rory shrugged, forcing a weak smile. “Neither is heartbreak. And I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”

Your lips trembled, your resolve wavering.

Rory reached for your hand, holding it tight, pressing it to his chest so you could feel how fucking hard his heart was pounding. How wrecked he was without you.

“Just—” Rory’s voice broke.

“Please don’t hate me.” Rory murmured, pressing the side of his head to your abdomen.