I don’t remember who threw the first glass—maybe you, maybe me—but the sound of it shattering against the wall is still ringing in my ears like a damn church bell.

I stand there in the middle of our ruined living room, chest heaving, breath sharp and uneven. It smells like spilled whiskey and dust, like something sacred burned down to the bone. The lampshade is crooked, a picture frame is on the floor, and your silhouette is pacing in the doorway like you’re trying to outrun your own shadow.

“Louis—” My voice cracks before I can swallow it down. God, I hate how small it sounds. How tired.

You don’t answer. You just drag a hand through your hair, letting out a shaky breath that’s half-laugh, half-sob. The kind of sound that guts me more than any shouting ever could.

I look at you and all I can think of is the line that’s been looping in my head for weeks: My church offers no absolutes. That’s us, isn’t it? No absolution. No place to confess without someone in the rafters listening, recording, threatening to sell the story to the world.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you mutter, voice low, bitter around the edges. You’re not screaming anymore. Somehow, that’s worse.

My jaw clenches. “Then stop running from me.”

You flinch. I see it. You try to hide it, but I know you too well. I know every version of you — the reckless one, the soft one, the scared one. The one they’ve been turning into someone else.

“I’m not running,” you spit back, but your eyes dart toward the window like you’re checking for ghosts. Or cameras. Same thing these days.

“You are,” I fire back, stepping over the broken glass. “You’ve been running since management stuck their claws in us. Since they told us who we had to be. Who we weren’t allowed to be.”

You look down, jaw working, throat tight. “It’s not that simple, Harry.”

“It was simple,” I say, and now my voice is shaking too. “It was simple when it was just you and me in that stupid tiny dressing room in 2010, before anyone gave a damn. When you’d look at me like I was—” I swallow hard. “Like I was allowed.”

Your eyes flick up to mine, and for a second — just a second — I see the boy who used to reach for my hand without thinking. The boy who used to climb into my bunk because he couldn’t sleep unless he knew I was breathing beside him. The boy who’d kiss me like it was magic, not a loaded gun.

But then it’s gone. Buried under fear. Under headlines. Under pressure and lies and the women they lined up between us like shields.

You shake your head. “You know I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But you let it. Every time you push me away because you’re scared they’ll notice… every time you pretend I’m just your mate in public — it’s like you’re asking me to baptize myself in your denial.”

You let out a strangled noise, something raw and furious. “You think this is easy for me? You think it doesn’t kill me too? I can’t just— I can’t be what you want right now.”

“You’re already what I want,” I say, voice breaking open like a confession. “You’ve always been. Even when I’m with someone else. Even when you are.”

You go still, the fight draining out of your shoulders like someone cut the strings holding you upright. I watch the moment you fold inward, the moment guilt slices through you. You look so damn fragile I want to cross the room and pull you into me. But I don’t move. I can’t. If I touch you, I’ll forgive you too easily, and we’ll fall right back into the cycle.

“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate who it makes me.”

I step closer, slow, cautious, like you’re a wounded animal. “I don’t hate you. I hate the way they’ve made you afraid of yourself.”

You blink hard, and I see tears gathering. You look away quickly, jaw tightening. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already are,” I breathe. “One argument at a time. One lie at a time. One step back every time I move forward.”

You look at me again, and the pain in your eyes is the kind of holy that hurts — the kind you fall to your knees for because you don’t know what else to do.