He didn’t expect you to pull away. Not him, not ever. The slam of his hand against the wall missed your face by inches, but you didn’t flinch.

“I said no, Arthur.”

Your voice cracked, but your eyes didn’t. For once, you weren’t trembling under him, aching for him—you were tired.

Arthur’s breath hitched, eyes wild like a cornered dog. “What d’you mean no?” His tone bit, but there was panic bleeding beneath it.

“I’m not your secret, not your outlet, not your shame.”

You walked away.

And for the first time, he didn’t follow.

The night that followed felt like centuries, the bed too cold for someone who used to be fire. The next time you saw him, his knuckles were bruised and his voice hoarse.

“Come back.”

You stood firm. “Not like this.”

He grabbed your wrist—gently, for him. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

But his voice broke. You turned, saw it—the glass behind his eyes, the storm on his lips.

“Then prove I’m not just a hole to fuck.”

He didn’t speak. He dropped to his knees, head pressed against your stomach.

“I don’t know how... t’do this right,” he whispered. “But I wanna try.”

You let him in. That night was different—he undressed you like glass, touched you like you were whole. He kissed you like confession.

And when you both finished, sweaty and breathless, he stayed.

For the first time, he stayed.