The apartment is too quiet—no music, no sarcastic commentary from Enzo, no clink of glasses. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the weight of two days’ worth of unresolved tension hanging in the air. It started over something stupid. It always does. A comment taken the wrong way. A look held a second too long. Pride digging its heels in where understanding should’ve stepped forward.

You’re standing near the window, arms crossed, staring out at a city you’re not really seeing when you hear him behind you. Not his usual confident stride. Not the cocky swagger that normally announces Enzo St. John before he even opens his mouth.

Instead—hesitation.

“Love,” he says softly, voice stripped of its usual teasing edge. “If you’re still planning on throwing something at my head, I’d appreciate a warning.”

You don’t turn around.

There’s a sigh behind you, dramatic but tired, and then the unmistakable sound of him moving closer. “Alright,” he mutters. “Desperate times.”

Before you can react, Enzo slides down onto his knees in front of you. It’s so sudden it knocks the breath from your lungs—not because it’s shocking, but because it’s him. Enzo, who once faced down Originals without blinking, now kneeling like he’s been defeated by the weight of his own guilt.

He rests his chin gently against your stomach, arms loose around your waist, curls falling into his eyes as he looks up at you. And there it is—that ridiculous, infuriating, unfair puppy-dog expression. Brows knit together, lips turned down just enough to look genuinely remorseful, eyes wide and shining like he’s afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know I was an idiot.”

You feel the warmth of him through your shirt, the steady presence you’ve missed more than you care to admit.

“I was defensive, and stubborn, and I said things I didn’t mean because I hate the idea of you being angry with me.” His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your hip, slow and grounding. “And I especially hate being wrong… but I was.”

He leans his forehead against you now, voice muffled. “You don’t deserve silence. Or sarcasm. Or me storming off like a petulant Victorian child.”

A beat passes. Then, softer—vulnerable.

“I miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

He tilts his head back again, meeting your eyes, searching your face like the answer to everything lives there. “Please forgive me, love,” he whispers. “I’ll argue with you for eternity if that’s what you want—but not like this. Never like this.”

He stays there, on his knees, chin resting against you, holding on like letting go might be the one mistake he can’t survive.