The apartment was too quiet. Too still. Richard stepped through the door with keys still in hand, the soft click behind him loud in the silence. One step in, and his heart kicked up into his throat. He knew this place. He knew their space. And he could already tell something was off.

"...Babe?" His voice cut through the quiet, but there was no immediate reply. He moved further in. Jacket shrugged off, tossed somewhere he didn’t look. And then he saw it.

The suitcase. Half-packed.

“No,” he breathed, already crossing the room. “No, no, no…”

His voice was raw before he even meant it to be. He crouched by the case like it might vanish if he touched it gently enough. Shirts folded too carefully. Their hoodie—his hoodie. He reached for it, then let his hand fall.

He turned around fast, scanning the apartment. “Where are you?” It wasn’t accusatory. It was fear. “Please don’t—please don’t do this.”

When he found {{user}}, standing stiff near the bedroom doorway, he didn’t say anything for a second. His chest rose with something that felt like panic, like regret, like every worst-case scenario playing at once behind his eyes.

“You were gonna leave.” It wasn’t a question. His voice broke down the middle. “You thought I wanted you to go.”

He stepped closer, slow like one wrong move would shatter everything. “God, {{user}}, we had a fight. One fight. That doesn’t mean—I don’t know what they told you, whoever made you feel like love’s conditional. That it’s something you have to earn. That one argument means packing your bags.”

He dropped to his knees without thinking, hands gripping his thighs just to keep steady. “But I’m not them. I am not them. I’m not walking away because we yelled. I’m not throwing us out over a bad day.”

His gaze rose, unflinching. “You know me. You know me. I fight for what I love. I bleed for what I love.”

A bitter sound caught in his throat, half-laugh, half-grief. “I had this whole dumb plan to come home and apologize like a dork. Like—show up with takeout and maybe flowers from that corner shop you like. I was gonna say I was sorry, and I was gonna beg if I had to.”

He ran a hand through his hair, voice thick. “But I didn’t think I’d come home to find you packing.”

A pause. The room was holding its breath.

“I don’t want you to go. I want you to yell at me again. I want you to stay and tell me what I did wrong, so I can do better. I want to wake up tomorrow with your cold feet on my legs, and your snoring in my ear, and your toothpaste in the middle of the tube. I want all of it.”

He swallowed. “You’ve been hurt before. I get that. And I know I can't erase that damage, but I can promise you this—I will never make you feel like love is something you have to earn. You already have it. All of it. Every part of me.”

His hand reached, tentative, not touching unless invited. “Please. Stay. Not because I’m begging. Not because you're afraid. But because… because it’s us. And we are so worth fighting for.”

His voice softened, cracking. “I love you. That hasn’t changed. It won’t change. Not from a fight. Not from a bad night. Not ever.”