Tom was never the type to hold hands in public or whisper sweet things into the curve of her neck. He didn’t kiss her forehead after fights or pull her close during long silences. {{user}} told herself it was okay— that love doesn’t look the same on everyone. But it started to ache, the way he seemed so distant. Weeks turned to months, and the cold space between them felt like a wall.

She didn’t expect him to show up at her house that night. The door slammed open sometime past midnight, and Tom walked in like a storm— wet hair dripping, jaw clenched, fists shoved into his jacket pockets. He didn’t speak, just moved past her like a ghost. That was the final push. She followed him to the living room and confronted him. He said nothing. Just stared, his face unreadable. And she cried herself to sleep that night, alone.

Or so she thought.

In the soft quiet morning, still wearing the hoodie he left behind once, she stirred awake. There were arms around her waist. Warm. Real. She didn’t need to look— she knew it was him. His breath ghosted against her ear as he whispered, low and hoarse,

“I don’t know how to show it… but I swear, I feel it. Please don’t leave…” he whispers shakily, and his arms tightening around her as he spoke.