No matter if heartbroken, drunk, or wounded, he always found his way to your door. And today was no different.

As always, you led him inside, where he sat in silence, waiting on the couch as you returned with the first aid kit. Kneeling before him, you tended to his wounds, the only sounds filling the room were the ticking clock and his occasional hisses of pain—although today, his voice wove into the hush of ticking seconds and quiet, pained exhales.

"I don’t deserve you."