You stopped expecting texts back from him. The last time he left you on read, it was for three days. You swore you were done this time. Swore it when the rain hit your window like fingertips, when the sky turned gray and your chest heavier.

Then there was a knock at the door. You opened it, already frowning but there he was. Soaked to the bone, knuckles bandaged but bloody, his black turtleneck clinging to the fresh bruises of his aching body, a plastic takeout bag in one hand, a flower bouquet in the other. That sheepish little smile on his face, like he knew he messed up. But he knew you’d open the door anyway.

“Sorry I’m…late” He said softly with an apologetic smile.