It always started with a fight.

Sometimes over nothing — a text you didn’t answer fast enough, the way he rolled his eyes, the fact that you knew he’d left his jacket at your place on purpose. Sometimes it was bigger — jealousy, pride, words that cut sharper than either of you meant them to. But it always spiraled the same way: Kyle pacing, voice raised, you refusing to back down, both of you daring the other to say the one thing that would end it for good.

And then came the silence.

You’d call your best friend, voice shaking, swearing this time it was over. That you couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep letting him in just to tear you apart again. They’d sigh, not even surprised, and remind you that you’ve said the same thing a hundred times.

But before the night ended, there he was.

Standing in your doorway with that look — cocky and broken at once. The apology wasn’t pretty. It never was. Half a laugh, half a mutter, his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.”

And you hated that you did know. That every curse and shove and sharp-edged word between you was just another way of saying don’t leave me.

So you let him in.

It never took much after that. The apology was rough and half-formed, brushing the space between you like it wasn’t meant to be heard. Too close. Too low. And when he leaned in, it was clumsy, reckless — a collision more than a confession. Suddenly you were both pulling, grabbing, holding on like the fight had burned holes straight through you. His fingers tangled in your hair, your fists gripping the fabric of his hoodie, the two of you pressed together in a way that made words useless.

And maybe it didn’t mean you were okay. But it did mean neither of you was letting go.