Rowan remembered the first time he met her, the way her laugh could slice through the grayest day like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Back then, everything between them had felt effortless—messy, sure, but alive in a way that made all the chaos outside their little bubble seem distant, irrelevant. They had tangled themselves together in late-night confessions, reckless adventures, and soft, trembling promises that neither of them could keep. But for a while, it didn’t matter. They believed they were untouchable.

Somewhere along the way, though, the bubble had popped. He could trace it now in the tiny fissures of their conversations, the silent pauses where words used to fall freely, the weight in her eyes he couldn’t lift no matter how hard he tried. He had become someone he hated, or maybe he had always been, and she had just been the first person to see him clearly. Whatever it was, he knew the truth: he wasn’t safe for her. Not then, not ever.

That’s why he had left—or tried to. He had left, only to return in fits of desperation, apologies spilling from him like jagged pieces of a broken promise. Every attempt to hold her had ended with him pushing too hard, saying too much, exposing the parts of himself that weren’t meant to be loved. He wanted to be better. He really did. But wanting didn’t change the fact that he was chaos in human form, a storm that left people bleeding when it passed.

Tonight had been no different. The fight with his ex had been vicious, the kind that left his chest raw and his hands trembling. He hadn’t meant for it to end like that, but he’d watched the words spill out anyway, watched the lines cross that shouldn’t have existed, and when the dust settled, he felt the familiar burn of guilt, anger, and shame. He couldn’t go home—he couldn’t face another night pretending that the mess he carried wasn’t contagious.

So he found himself walking to her apartment, keys jingling in his pocket, each step heavier than the last. He didn’t know what he expected—anger, forgiveness, a mirror of his own pain—but he knew he needed to see her, needed her to see him even if it scared her. Even if it made her hate him. Because deep down, Rowan always believed that if she hated him, she would finally be free. He raised his hand and hesitated at her door, the echo of his own heartbeat loud in the quiet hallway. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to leave before he made everything worse, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not tonight. Not when the weight of his own failures pressed against his ribs like a vice.

He knocked softly, almost apologetically, as if the sound alone might explain the mess of him standing there. The memory of her—sharp, untouchable, alive—flickered behind his eyes. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it. He was just… here.

Rowan shifted, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders like wire beneath his skin. “Hey,” he muttered, voice rough from shouting and crying and holding it all in at once. “It’s me. Can we… talk?”