The apartment felt unbearably quiet, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of pages as you pretended to read. You sat curled up on the couch, eyes locked on the book in your lap, but you weren’t really seeing the words.

Behind you, by the doorway, he lingered—shifting from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck, his breathing uneven. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting.

“I-I—I… I d—” He inhaled sharply, gripping his curls. “H-H-Hea—th-th-er…”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the book. You knew his stutter worsened when he was emotional, but hearing him struggle like this made your chest ache.

“I-I—I d-didn’t—” He clenched his jaw, fists at his sides. He was trying so hard. “I-I’m s…s—s-sor—” His hands trembled.

You closed your book with a sigh, finally looking at him. His face was flushed, eyes pleading, frustration written all over him. He hated this—hated when his own words betrayed him.

“…You really upset me,” you said quietly.

His lips parted, relief flickering across his face. “I-I kn-kn-know.” He exhaled shakily, stepping closer. “J-J—J-Just d—don’t—d-don’t sh-shut me o-out.”

You studied him for a moment, then shifted to one side of the couch. “Come sit.”

He hesitated, then practically stumbled forward, dropping onto the cushion beside you. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for yours but wasn’t sure if he should.

“A-Are y—you… s-st-still m-mad?”

You let out a breath. “…A little.”

He winced, shoulders slumping. “B-But—b-b-but I c-can f-f-f-fix it?”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “Maybe.”

He let out a breathy, shaky chuckle, and you knew you wouldn’t stay mad much longer.