You don’t even finish the sentence.

“Clark, I think maybe we should—”

His whole body stiffens. “No.”

You blink. “You didn’t even let me finish—”

“Because I know what you were gonna say.” His voice cracks, barely holding it together, but there’s steel beneath it, the same kind that comes out when he’s fighting for something he refuses to lose.

“We shouldn’t break up.”

He’s standing in front of you now, eyes locked on yours, shoulders tense like he’s physically bracing himself.

“Whatever it is—whatever I did or didn’t do—just tell me. We can fix it. I can fix it.”

You look down, trying to breathe around the ache in your chest. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is to me.” he says, voice quiet but firm. “It’s us. That’s always been the only thing that makes sense.”

You shake your head. “Clark—”

“You don’t just stop loving someone overnight.” His voice rises just enough to shake. “And I know you still love me.”

You flinch. That’s what makes it harder, because he’s right.

“Don’t walk away from this.” he says, stepping closer, not touching you, but close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Don’t walk away from me.”

His eyes search yours — desperate, aching. “I don’t care how messy it gets, or how hard it is, or how scared we are. I’m not letting this end just because it hurts right now.”

You stay quiet.

He swallows hard. “You said I was your safe place,” he murmurs. “Please don’t take that back. Not like this.”

And then his voice becomes raw and quiet. “You’re it for me, {{user}}.”