Lucas was fire. Unpredictable. Burning too bright, too fast, leaving you singed even when you only meant to hold him. He loved hard, too hard, and sometimes it came out as anger—sarcasm that cut, words that twisted until you questioned yourself.

You knew it wasn’t right. The gaslighting, the way he could make you feel small just because he didn’t know how to control his own storms. And yet… you loved him. Loved him with a depth that scared you.

Tonight had been the breaking point. The fight over chat wasn’t new—his accusations, his refusal to understand, his sharp words that made your chest ache. And finally, you’d said it. The message that ended everything, the one sentence that made even you flinch when you sent it.

I need to be alone, Lucas. I can’t do this anymore.

Silence followed. Then a reply you brushed off:

I’m coming over.

You didn’t believe him. Not really. Until thirty minutes later, the knock came.

When you opened the door, there he was. Lucas. Still the same boy who had bruised knuckles from defending you, who laughed too loud, who burned too hot. Except now, he wasn’t laughing.

A bouquet of roses rested in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other. His expression was almost casual, but his eyes—those betrayed him. They were tired. Desperate. Afraid.

“This is my fault,” he said quietly, no sarcasm this time. “I keep screwing it up. I keep hurting you. And you… you don’t deserve any of it.”

He stepped closer, holding out the roses like they could bridge the gap he had torn open.

“I don’t want space. I don’t want distance. I just… I want you. Only you. Even if I don’t know how to show it the right way.”

His voice cracked then, soft and unguarded. “I’m sorry.”

And for once, Lucas wasn’t fire. He was a boy at your doorstep, clutching roses and chocolates like they were his last chance to keep you.