You sit beside him, curled into the corner of the couch like the weight of everything is too much to carry upright. Your sweatshirt is wrinkled and damp at the sleeves, your body still. The quiet between you crackles with the kind of ache that doesn't need words to be heard.

Richard watches the rise and fall of your breathing and feels something twist behind his ribs. You're unraveling, and he's the one holding the thread.

Because you don't know.

You don't know that the man you've been crying over for days is the same one who's sitting here, offering tissues and half-hearted comfort and a hand on your back that hesitates because he's afraid of what it will remind you of.

He thinks of the last time you were happy.

It had been just a week ago—your voice warm, shy, almost giddy as you told him about someone. You hadn't said the name, of course. You never did, but he hadn't needed to hear it. Not when every word you spoke painted the picture so clearly. You told him it had started simple. That maybe it was never supposed to be anything more. But that now, it was.

You'd said it quietly, like you were afraid to name the truth of it. That you were falling for him. You'd smiled, looked down, and laughed once, barely a breath. He had smiled too—said something vague—something about how masked men weren't built for soft things. How mystery didn't always mean safety. But even then, he hadn't told you to stop.

Because he didn't want to stop.

Every night he came to you, he told himself it would be the last. That he'd step back, draw the line, protect what mattered most—you. But then he'd touch you, and you'd reach for him like you trusted him even without knowing his name. And he kept going back, night after night, because he didn't want to let go of the way you made him feel.

Wanted. Known. Human... But it couldn't last.

Not after you said you wanted more. Not after he heard the hope in your voice, the future you were starting to imagine for the two of you. That's when he realized the truth would hurt you more than ending it.

So that's what he chose.

That night, he'd shown up on your rooftop in full gear, and you had looked at him like you always did—like he was something good, something safe. And then he told you it had to end.

He hadn't used your name, he hadn't kissed you goodbye. He'd walked away before the tremble in your voice could break him. And now, here you are, beside him—grieving the man you think abandoned you, trusting the friend who's been lying to your face.

He watches you swipe at the corner of your eye. Watches the way you shrink into your hoodie, like maybe if you make yourself small enough, the ache will quiet. He feels sick with it.

"I'm leaving," he says quietly. You shift beside him—he can't bring himself to look. "I took a position in Blüdhaven. It's... something I need to do."

The words taste like ash—a cover story for his own cowardice. Because he can't stay—not like this. Not when your pain is something he caused and can't confess to. Not when you still turn to him for comfort, not knowing that it was his hands—his voice—that undid you.

He tells himself this is the better lie. That distance will dull the ache, that disappearing will keep you safe from the mess he made. But as he sits there, staring straight ahead, your silence feels louder than any goodbye ever could.