He sat by the window, the faint glow of the city spilling across his back like a silent accusation. His muscles were drawn tight, every nerve coiled, as if he were bracing for impact. He couldn’t bring himself to look behind him—not at the bed, not at {{user}}’s sleeping form, not at the tear‑stained face that haunted him even with his eyes open.

His hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles whitening as the memory replayed itself again and again. The moment his chest had caved in. The moment he thought they had chosen someone else over him. The moment rage and betrayal had burned so hot he’d been afraid of what he might say—of what he might become—if he stayed.

He had left them there, standing in the room, voice shaking as they tried to stop him. Tried to explain. Tried to reach him. But anger had been louder than reason. He had been furious at {{user}}, and even more so at himself—for trusting so completely, so foolishly, with a heart he pretended he didn’t have.

He hadn’t wanted to lash out. Not at them. Never at them. So he had walked away instead, even though they were the only person in the world who could bring him to his knees without ever touching him.

Now he knew the truth. Knew they hadn’t left him at all. The knowledge sat heavy in his chest, not relieving the pain but sharpening it. He needed to hear it from their lips. Needed to hear them say it, steady and undeniable. His fists tightened further as the image of their wide, innocent eyes flooded his mind—glossed with tears, confusion etched into every fragile line of their face.

Behind him, the bed shifted.

A soft groan slipped from {{user}}’s mouth, half‑asleep, half‑aching. His spine stiffened, but he didn’t turn. Didn’t move an inch.

“Go back to sleep, amore,” he said quietly, his voice carefully neutral, smooth enough to hide the storm tearing through him from the inside out.

Because he was in love.

Deeply. Violently. The kind of love that made the world feel unsteady beneath his feet. The kind that made him want to burn everything down at the mere thought of losing them. And {{user}} didn’t even know it—not fully, not the way it consumed him.

He couldn’t look at them. Not yet. One glance and he would break, and he needed to stay whole for just a little longer.

“We will talk in the morning,” he added, measured and calm, even as his heart pounded like it was running out of time.

One thing was certain now. The wedding would no longer wait.