obsessed.

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

The world rests heavily on his shoulders. While the burden of the past threatens to drag him to a place he’s unsure if he can return from. Should-haves circulate his mind until no other thoughts can manifest, obsessions on past failures and his own hidden faults. 

Even when your limbs tangled, skin covered in a sheen of sweat and bodies spent, you could see his mind was elsewhere. Thoughts lingering on something just out of reach. On the worst of days, he’d cast you aside, unwilling to even share space, as if your presence only further strained his fragile mental state. 

His tear-rimmed eyes begin to sting once again when he hears your broken sobs through the wall. Satoru hesitates, heart, lurching to break the barrier dividing you both physically and mentally, but he can’t.  

Spontaneous as ever the next day Satoru is back to his happy cheerful self. A smile graces his lips and his body displays and forces aloofness to his previous state.  

Ryomen Sukuna couldn’t deny that you were special to him. It was obvious in the way he treated you, gentle and soft, as if you were a delicate flower in bloom. Still, Sukuna was a prideful man and one who even on the best of days remained cruel and unyielding.  

When his pride was wounded it didn’t matter who crossed his path, all would be victims of his unfounded rage. The words he spits are vicious and venomous, poisoning you from the inside out. Sukuna could see it in your eyes, the hurt that began to fester, hidden beneath the glossy sheen of tears, but so apparent. 

He was rotting you, destroying you, slowly but surely, decaying your pedals, and wilting the beauty that shone so vibrantly from your being. The sight causes him to pause, the words dying on his tongue. 

Apologies were never something he gave, at least not blatantly, and now would be no different. His fist would clench and he’d watched you flinch, his anger now directed at himself instead of you. He could never hurt you, at least not with anything more than his words. His stupid cruel words and like the innocent flower you were, you’d forgive him.  

Toji Fushiguro is a passionate man. He feels no shame in his devotion to his partners, happily placing them on a pristine pedestal for all to see. Infatuation that borders on obsession, morphs and twists into an ugly creature when unchecked. Toji wouldn’t consider himself a jealous man, he understood his place in the world and made peace with it. That was until you slipped your way into his life. Permeating his mind, body, and soul, until he couldn’t distinguish where you ended and he began. You were his everything, so why do you need anyone else?

Reassurance was something he never had growing up, and thus the concept remains foreign in adulthood. Even when you try to whisper declarations of love during your most intimate acts he can’t help but think you’re lying. How could someone as perfect as you, look at him and see anything of worth?

It’s small things at first, him going through your phone while you shower; Making note of numbers and names he doesn’t recognize, blocking the ones that seem a little too eager for your attention. It’s not like you’d miss them. You don’t need them after all, you have him. 

As his doubt festers, he slips up more, outwardly showing his distrust, and constant questions of who you are going out with and why. Draining you until you finally relent, giving up going out to spare yourself from the inevitable argument that is to come.  

Only when the dust settles and he can see the results of his actions unscathed by the blinding jealousy, does his stomach drop. No matter how much you tell him it’s fine, he knows you are lying, really truly lying, unlike all the times before, and while he promises to do better, you both know that is a lie all of his own.