This is his fault.

Maybe if he hadn’t raised his voice.

Maybe if he had kept his cool when you brought up that girl who clearly touched him on purpose.

Maybe if he hadn’t made you feel like you were overreacting.

Maybe if he hadn’t ended up on the damn sofa, staring at the ceiling all night, thinking about your silence.

He’s never hated silence more.

"Just tell me what I can do" he says, standing there in the doorway, looking like hell. His curls are a mess, his shirt inside out. He didn’t sleep. He couldn't. Every creak of the bed he wasn’t in was a fresh stab to the chest.

You don’t look at him. You're sitting on the bed, brushing your hair like nothing happened. Like he didn’t spend the last eight hours unraveling in the dark.

And it breaks him.

He drops to his knees. No hesitation.

His pride is long gone—left somewhere between your bedroom door and the third apology he practiced in his head.

“Amor…” he whispers, the word thick in his throat.

He crawls forward, rests his head in your lap like he belongs there, like that’s the only place in the world that could make this stop hurting.

His arms are wrapped around your waist now, trembling. His voice is shaking against your skin.

"If you want me to grovel, I'll do it. If you want me to apologize a thousand times, I'll say them. But don't leave me like this. I need you."