“You can’t keep giving me the silent treatment,” Aston says with a sigh—half-defeated, half-hopeful, like he still thinks he can charm his way out of this one.

Maybe he cant.

Not this time.

You’ve been hunched over the busted-up mess of his front bumper for twenty minutes now, fixing the same spot over and over. Not because it needs that much work, but because it keeps you from looking at him. From seeing those stupidly blue eyes and that face you were supposed to grow old with—not say goodbye to.

He shifts awkwardly behind you. He’s been hovering the whole time. Watching. Not racing off like he always does when things get uncomfortable. That, more than anything, tells you he knows he messed up.

“Come on, {{user}},” he groans, stepping closer. “I didn’t say I was leaving, I just said it was an option—I’m thinking about it. There’s a difference.”

Is there?

You keep working. Tools clink. He sighs again, this time longer. He’s not used to this—being shut out, ignored. He’s used to being adored, idolized, cheered for under neon lights and roaring engines. But out here, in your garage, there’s no spotlight. Just silence and an uncertain future.

He moves behind you, slow like you’re something fragile now. And maybe you are. You feel the weight of his forehead press lightly to your shoulder. Then his arms—strong, familiar—wrap around your waist. Not tight. Careful.

“{{user}},” he says again, softer now, like your name might break in his mouth. “We can’t make this work if we don’t talk.”

You still don’t say anything.

He gently turns you around, hands light on your hips, and finally meets your eyes. There’s no smirk this time. No cocky confidence. Just that rare, aching honesty that sneaks past all the shields he thinks he’s so good at keeping up.

“I promised you something,” he murmurs. “A future. I didn’t forget that. I’m just… trying to figure out how to do both. Be who I want to be—and still be here. With you.”

His voice cracks a little on the last part. Not enough for most to notice. But you do.

“Please?” he adds, and it lands somewhere in the center of your chest like a slow crash. No skid. No warning. Just the impact.

It’s not that you don’t love him. It’s that you do. Too much to be left behind. Too much to be treated like a pit stop.

And now? Now he has to prove he knows that.