You don’t even know how it got this far. The argument started small — something about trust, about late nights, about him shutting you out again. Words turned sharp, louder, messier. Now your hands are shaking and there’s a gun in them, and August — your Auggie — stands across from you, eyes wide, breath shallow.

“Hey. Hey, put it down,” he says, soft but breaking at the edges. He takes a step closer, hands raised like you’re some wild thing he can soothe. “Baby, come on. It’s me. Just… put it down, okay?”

But you can’t. The anger’s hot behind your ribs, but under it — terror, heartbreak, something you don’t even have a name for. You can’t even remember what you’re fighting about anymore, but it hurts.

“I swear to God, August, don’t you come closer—” you snap, voice cracking. The barrel wavers.

He flinches but keeps his hands up. “I’m right here. Just look at me. Just—just breathe, alright? You don’t wanna do this.”

You don’t know who moves first — you, stepping back, or him, stepping forward. The gun lifts just a little higher between you. His eyes flick down to your finger near the trigger, then back to your face. There’s fear there now — real fear — and something worse: love.

And it breaks something inside you, seeing how scared he is — and how much he loves you anyway.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he whispers, like he’s begging you to prove him right.

Your chest heaves. There are tears burning your eyes now, but your voice is all steel when you choke out, “You think I’m playin’?”