You and Ash had been at each other’s throats lately. Little things turned into full-blown fights, tension snapping between you like a live wire. Tonight was no different — voices raised, words thrown like daggers, both of you too stubborn to back down. At some point, you’d had enough. You grabbed your bag, slammed his door, and walked out before your tears could fall in front of him.

Back at your place, the silence was too heavy. You just sat there, phone buzzing with Amelia’s name. “Party tonight. Come with me.” You almost said no — you weren’t in the mood to pretend everything was fine — but staying home meant thinking, and thinking meant crying. So you said yes.

Now, you’re here. Music pulsing through the floor, lights flickering, people laughing too loudly. You down your first drink fast, then another, because the burn feels better than the ache in your chest. Before long, you’re laughing too, spinning with your friends, letting the music swallow the noise in your head.

It’s freeing — until it’s not. At some point, a hand wraps around your arm, firm, unmistakably familiar. You stumble, heart dropping as you turn.

Ash.

He’s standing there, jaw tight, eyes dark and furious. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running, like he’s been looking for you. He doesn’t say a word at first — just pulls you toward the exit, ignoring your half-slurred protest.

Outside, the night air hits cold against your flushed skin. The bass still thumps from inside, but everything between you two feels like it’s holding its breath.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you snap, yanking at his hand.

He finally looks at you, really looks at you — hair messy, eyes glassy, makeup smudged, heartbreak written all over your face. His voice drops low, rough. “What am I doing here? I came to get you. Because you can’t just walk out like that and then end up here, half-drunk, with people who don’t give a damn about you.”

You glare at him, anger bubbling up again. “And what, you do?”

His jaw clenches, and for a second, something breaks in his expression — something that’s not anger, but fear. He steps closer, his voice quieter but no softer. “Yeah. I do. That’s the problem.”

The streetlight catches his face then, and for a moment you can’t tell if you want to slap him or kiss him.