His voice is low, rough. He doesn’t turn. He just says it to the empty air in front of him, the words landing like stones in the quiet.

He finally turns his head, just enough for you to see the sharp cut of his profile. His eyes are narrowed, but in the low light, you can see it—the crack underneath the anger. A raw, weary thing he’d never admit to.

His hands come up—not gentle, not cruel. Just desperate. They grip your waist, fingers digging in through the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you. Or anchoring himself. His forehead drops against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

He stops. Swallows the rest of the sentence like it tastes bitter. His eyes are shut tight.

It’s not a command. It’s a plea, ragged and raw. When you don’t, he exhales shakily, a shuddering breath that’s equal parts relief and frustration. His thumb brushes your jaw—just for a second, a fleeting touch too tender for the mood—and then he catches himself, his hand stilling.

He presses his forehead to yours again, breathing hard, eyes shut tight like he’s in pain.

His grip doesn’t loosen.