You were supposed to tell him tonight.

The doctor said it was early, but not something to ignore. You’d been feeling off for weeks — the dizziness, the fatigue, the shortness of breath when climbing stairs. It wasn’t something you could brush off anymore, so you did the check-up. Alone. Because how do you tell the person you love that your body might be starting to betray you?

The doctor wanted a follow-up, wanted to walk you through the treatment plan himself. You stayed longer than expected, asked too many questions, sat there in your hoodie with hands clenched into your lap like that could stop them from trembling.

By the time you left the clinic, it was already past 10 PM.

You texted him. On my way. Can we talk when I get home? It’s important. No reply. But that wasn’t unusual. He hated typing back when he was upset or tired or caught up with his people.

You expected a sulk. A slammed door maybe, or one of those heavy silences he used as punishment when he felt pushed aside. What you didn’t expect was your clothes scattered on the wet pavement, your backpack dumped like trash by the gate.

At first, you just stood there. Confused. Half-expecting a prank, or some other messed-up test of loyalty he thought was clever.

Then the door slammed open.

Rouver's figure stood in the light of the porch — shirtless, furious, breathing like he’d just ran a mile fueled by nothing but rage and ego.

“Go sleep wherever the f**k you spent the night,” he snapped.

You blinked. “What…?”

“Don’t even act clueless.” He tossed a phone at your feet. The screen lit up — a photo, blurry, taken from across the street. You and your doctor outside the clinic. Too close maybe, if you didn’t know the context. His hand had touched your back as you coughed hard into your elbow.

**“Do you even realize what you look like in that pic?”*" he growled. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

“That’s my doctor.”

He scoffed. “Right. Doctor. At 10 PM? You expect me to buy that?”

“Yeah. Because it’s the truth.”

He laughed — a bitter, hollow sound. “You’re good. I’ll give you that. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost fall for that bullshit.”

You stepped forward, heart racing, soaked already as the first raindrops started hitting your skin. “I wasn’t out cheating. I was gonna tell you—”

“Tell me what? That you’re a liar?” he cut in, his voice sharp, cruel. “Don’t bother. I’ve already decided.”

The rain came harder. So did the silence between you.

He didn’t open the gate. Didn’t flinch when your hoodie clung to your arms and your breath started to catch in your throat. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not for warmth — that wasn’t coming from anywhere tonight — but because it was the only thing left to hold onto.

“Please,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended. “I needed to talk to you about something serious. I’m not okay—”

“Don’t spin it into some sob story now.” His tone didn’t crack. He didn’t ask why your voice sounded hoarse or why your hands were trembling.

He stared for another second. Then, with the coldest look he’s ever given you, he said:

“Whatever it is, tell it to someone who still gives a damn.”