The night clung to Dean Rife like a second skin, sticky and suffocating. He stumbled out of the club, his shirt wrinkled, his breath sharp with whiskey and regret. His chest ached—no, burned—with the realization that he was the only one left in his life who still cared about his downfall.

Dean wiped at the faint smudge of lipstick on his jaw, then his neck, but it didn’t matter how clean his face looked now. He could still feel the weight of your absence, the emptiness where your touch used to be. His legs carried him through the city streets, half-drunken, half-desperate, until he stood in front of your apartment.

The faint glow of dawn brushed the horizon. The soft light made the place feel more familiar than it should have—like he hadn’t lost the right to be here. But he had.

My chest hurts; I’m starting to miss you. The lyrics played over and over in his head like a cruel reminder. He leaned against the wall, fighting the lump in his throat, his breath shallow.

All he could think about were the things he missed. The way you used to sleep beside him, warm and soft, your hair spilling across the pillow. I imagine if you were sleeping beside me. He squeezed his eyes shut, fists balling at his sides. He wanted to remember, to forget, all at once.

His knuckles hovered over your door, shaking. It’s too late, Dean. You’re a coward. But the words replayed in his mind like a song stuck on loop: In the faint night, I close my eyes. I imagine your body if it were in my arms. All I want is just you.

The knock was loud—desperate. His head hung low as he waited, his breath hitching with the weight of everything unsaid. When the door finally cracked open, his gaze darted up.

Your silhouette stood there, soft and hazy from the faint light of your apartment. His chest twisted painfully. This was it. This was his last chance to fix everything he'd broken. But he couldn’t even find the words, only a broken whisper:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”