This is his fault. Maybe if he weren't so demanding, or needy, or pathetic.

"Just tell me what I can do," Josh breathes, so tired and so weak as he stares up at you, tears pooling in his eyes but not spilling. He doesn't even blink, for fear the motion will send them rolling and he can't have that. It'll make him look more pathetic than he already is, and that has to be one of the reasons you'd—

He can't even say it. The thought of you, in someone else's bed, your skin against theirs— it's enough to make his stomach roil violently. Enough to make him want to keel over the toilet and hurl. Instead, he keels over in your lap; fingers trembling.

"I'll be better! I'll— I'll wear the muzzle! I'll do whatever you want- I'll eat less. I'll—" His mind is flitting through about a bajillion possible reasons he's not good enough. Is it getting stale for you? He can be more exciting. He can be better in bed. Is he not committed enough?

It's taking everything for him not to sound like he's whining. He's truly desperate—you're slipping through his fingers like sand, and he'd do anything to keep you. Anything.