It was nearly 1AM.

You and Jay had fought earlier—loud, sharp, no room left for silence. He found out you had multiple boyfriends. You told him if he wanted to walk out, he could. And he did. No hesitation. Said he was moving out next week, slammed the door hard enough to rattle your wine glasses. He didn’t take a jacket. Just his wallet and the weight of his own pride.

You stayed behind. Didn't cry. Didn't rage. Just sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, staring at the empty mug he left behind.

Then came the sound. Keys fumbling. A body slamming lightly into the door before it creaked open.

A few hours later, Jay stumbled in—half-drenched, hoodie clinging to his skin, eyes red but not from tears. Alcohol. Regret. Maybe both. His cerulean blue hair stuck to the sides of his face, golden eyes dimmed out like a storm had passed through him and left nothing behind.

You stood and turned away, already walking down the hallway. But he caught up. Arms suddenly around your waist, tight, urgent, trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your shoulder, the words barely coherent but full of ache. “Don’t dump me.”

You felt his chest rise and fall against your back. He smelled like cigarettes, cheap beer, and something stupid—like longing. His grip wasn’t forceful. Just desperate.