Dick sat on the edge of a worn sofa, his face buried in his hands. His usual confidence had vanished, replaced by a rawness he couldn’t hide, even from her.

{{user}} stepped in, her boots clicking against the cold floor, the door slamming behind her.

“Dick…” She paused, not sure how to approach him. Her mind replayed the argument—the frustration, the things they’d both said, and the silence that had followed.

He didn’t look up. “Go away.” His voice was rough, each word dripping with regret.

Her heart sank, but she didn’t move. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I do mean it,” he muttered, his hand running through his hair in frustration. “You don’t get it. I screwed up, {{user}}. I always screw up.”

Her eyes softened, and she walked over, sitting next to him on the couch. He finally met her gaze, his eyes bloodshot, but there was a flicker of vulnerability there, something he wasn’t used to showing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about the band. I didn’t mean it.”

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, his voice cracking again. “I hate that I always take it out on you. You’re the last person I want to hurt.”