Tate doesn’t yell. That’s the part that hurts more.

He just goes quiet—eyes dropping, jaw tightening like he’s swallowing something sharp. He backs away without another word, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, and then he’s gone. Not storming off. Just… disappearing.

Hours pass before you find him again, sitting on the floor of an empty room, back against the wall. Knees pulled in. He doesn’t look up right away.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back,” he mutters finally.

There’s guilt all over him, heavy and sour. “When I get mad, things get ugly in my head.” A pause. “So I leave. That way I don’t ruin everything.”

He glances at you then, wary, like he’s bracing for the moment you decide he’s too much.