Marc was worried. At first he thought maybe you were just tired or exhausted, hell he hoped that was the reason—but he knew it was something deeper. You were distant and withdrawn when you were usually so bubbly and lively.

You two barely held a conversation, let alone were you affectionate with each other—something he missed terribly. It was tense and awkward, the air between you to almost suffocating. You were pulling away and it scared him.

“Damn it {{user}} talk to me.” Marc demanded, following you as you tried to dodge him. He hoped by confronting you, you’d finally tell him what was going on. However as you kept trying to brush it off, he realized you were much too stubborn to just talk with him directly. He sighed, grabbing your bicep and stopping you in your tracks.

His dark brows knitted together, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with worry.

“Baby please,” his voice was low and desperate. His grip on your forearm was firm but gentle. “Talk to me.”