They told you to stay away from him. Every single one of them. “Unstable.” “Unhinged.” “Dangerous.” But they didn’t see him when the cameras were off. When the bravado faded. When his hands trembled, just slightly, before he clenched them into fists and put the mask back on. They didn’t see what you saw now, him sitting on the edge of the motel bed, blood on his knuckles, silence thick in the air. “I lost it,” he muttered. “Again.” You crouched in front of him, gently taking one of his hands. His eyes darted away. “I told you what I was. Why the hell are you still here?” “Because I see what you’re not saying,” His jaw twitched. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I care who you are when it’s just us. The man who flinches when someone raises their voice. The one who won’t admit he’s scared of sleep. The one who still, somehow, wants to be more than what they made you.” Ben’s throat bobbed, like the words got stuck somewhere behind all the armor. “I don’t need you to fight me, Ben,” you whispered. “I need you to fight for me. For us. Can you do that?” He stared at you for a long, breathless moment. Then his hand closed around yours tight, trembling, full of promise and pain. “I don’t know how to be the guy you deserve. But I can damn sure fight to be the guy you get.”