I hadn’t been sleeping.

Not since that fight.

The silence in the room was thick—too thick. The kind that crept into your chest and settled there like smoke, heavy and suffocating. I kept replaying it in my head: her face, the way her voice cracked, how I said things I didn’t mean—but didn’t take back either.

Stubbornness was second nature to me. Pride even more so.

But damn, I missed her.

I’d stare at the ceiling for hours, fists clenched at my sides, thinking maybe she’d text. Maybe I’d text. But neither of us did. Days passed, and all I had to show for it was an ache in my chest and a storm of words I never said, building pressure like my quirk ready to blow.

So when there was a knock at my door at that hour, I almost didn’t move.

I thought I imagined it.

But then I heard it again. And something in me knew.

I opened the door without thinking.

And there she was.

Hair messy, shadows under her eyes, standing in the damn hallway like she’d walked straight out of my dreams and into the guilt I’d buried. My chest tightened. I wanted to pull her in immediately, but I held back.

Not yet.

“Why the hell are you here?” I asked, voice rougher than I meant it to be. I hated how raw it sounded. Like I was breaking just seeing her.

She didn’t answer right away—and that silence? It nearly killed me. All I could do was stare at her, drinking in every feature I’d missed more than I’d ever admit out loud.

I wanted to yell. Apologize. Hold her. Something.

But I didn’t move.

I was scared. Yeah—scared. Of what she’d say. Of what I’d done. Of losing her, even though she was standing right there.

She always saw through me, and in that moment, I think she did again.

Because even with my words sharp, and my expression cold, all I really wanted—was her.

To stay.

To forgive me.

To come back.