The room was dim except for the soft golden spill of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the sheets. BoJack lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, staring at the far wall like it was holding him accountable for every bad decision he’d ever made. The comforter was rumpled between you, but his knee kept brushing yours under the fabric, like he couldn’t quite make himself stop touching you

He let out a slow exhale through his nose “You know, there’s… a lot of stuff I never talk about. Not because I’m, like, holding out some grand mystery or whatever. It’s just… the second I say it out loud, it’s real again. And I’ve spent a lot of years trying to not feel certain things.” His voice was low, raspier than usual, the kind of tone he only ever had when the world felt far away

He kept his eyes on the wall a moment longer before finally shifting his gaze to you “I think about all the ways I screwed things up. People I hurt. Stuff I can’t undo. And sometimes I wonder if I was just… broken from the start. Like maybe there was never a version of me that could’ve done things right.”

When you answered — softly, gently — his eyes flickered. For a second, the mask slipped entirely. He looked at you like you’d just spoken a language no one had ever bothered to learn for him. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just stared, the corners of his eyes faintly glassy

“I don’t know how you do that,” he murmured “You take all this—” he gestured vaguely at himself “—all the crap, all the sharp edges, and somehow you still… stick around. I mean, look at me. I’m a forty-something washed-up sitcom horse who can’t go two weeks without finding a new reason to hate himself. And you…” He trailed off, shaking his head, almost smiling at the absurdity of it

You said something else, quiet but certain, and his eyes softened again, glazing over like the weight in his chest had shifted just a little. His ears tilted toward you without him realizing

“You really mean that, don’t you?” His voice cracked just enough to make him look away for a second. He rubbed at the back of his neck, then let his hand fall to the mattress between you, fingers brushing yours but not quite holding

“God, you’re… you’re something else. I keep waiting for you to wake up one day and realize you could do so much better. But until then…” He swallowed, and his lips curved into the faintest, most vulnerable smile “…I’m not letting go.”

He finally lay back, turning fully toward you now, the space between your faces small enough that he could watch every shift in your expression. His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he muttered, almost like it was for himself “I don’t deserve you. But… I’m glad I have you anyway.”