Ash and you had blown up at each other tonight — again. It was the same cycle you two kept falling into: tiny spark, full explosion, both of you too stubborn and too damn emotional to just talk like adults. Lately everything had been tense. But this fight… yeah, this one was bad. Worst in a long time.

It started with something stupid — it always does — but the second voices started rising, neither of you backed down. You matched his tone, he matched yours, and suddenly it wasn’t about the stupid thing anymore. It was about everything. The last few months. The misunderstandings. The frustration. The fear of losing each other that neither of you ever admitted out loud.

At some point you were both just yelling over each other, not even hearing what the other person said. Your chest was tight, eyes burning, adrenaline shaking your hands. And then you snapped — “Get the fuck away from me!” The silence after that line hit harder than the shouting.

Ash froze for a second, jaw clenched so hard you could hear the grind of his teeth. Then he spat out something about how he “couldn’t put up with your bullshit anymore,” slammed the door so hard a picture frame rattled, and left. Heavy footsteps down the hall. Then nothing.

He went home, threw his keys somewhere on the counter, kicked his shoes off, and tried to sleep. Tried being the keyword. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, replaying every sentence, every insult, every moment where he should’ve shut up or softened his tone. But instead he’d pushed and pushed until you broke.

And the longer he stayed alone in that silence, the more the anger drained and the worry crept in. What if you were crying? What if you actually meant “get away”? What if this stupid argument was the one that finally messed things up for good?

Ash wasn’t the type to apologize easily — pride was basically his emotional armor — but tonight pride felt useless. He couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest, that heavy, nauseating pressure that only ever came from you.

So, around midnight, he got up. No thinking, just moving. Pulled on some baggy jeans, a hoodie, shoved his wallet and phone into his pockets. Grabbed his motorcycle keys. It was pure instinct, like something in him knew he wasn’t sleeping until he saw you.

He rode through the cold night air, the streets mostly empty, engine rumbling under him. His thoughts raced harder than the bike. At some random late-night shop he stopped, grabbed your favorite flowers — the exact kind he always pretended he didn’t remember but secretly did — and headed straight to your place.

When he finally pulled up, he didn’t even kill the engine right away. Just sat there a second, breathing like he’d run the whole way.

Then he texted you: I’m outside. Come please. I need to see you.

He shut the engine off, swung a leg over the bike, and took off his helmet. His hair was messy, his hoodie slightly damp from the cold air. In one hand he held the bouquet — way too big, way too dramatic, very him — and leaned against his Yamaha, eyes fixed on your building.

Waiting. Anxious. Ready to swallow his pride for once in his life, because losing you over something so stupid would ruin him.