The pub had been loud that night — laughter, music, clinking glasses — but Johnny barely remembered any of it now. What stuck with him was your smile. God, it had lit up the entire bloody room, and for a few fleeting hours, things had felt... right. Normal. Like they used to be.

Until it wasn't.

By the end of the night, you were too far gone, your body heavy against his as he guided you out into the cold night air. Johnny muttered soft reassurances, his accent low and warm against your ear. "Easy now, lass... aye, I've got ye. Just lean on me."

The drive home was silent, you half-asleep in the passenger seat, head turned toward the window. Johnny's hand rested gently on yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles — a small, quiet reminder that you were safe. That you were his.

Back home, he carried you upstairs without hesitation, cradling you against his chest. You smelled faintly of whiskey and the perfume you wore on nights you wanted to feel your best — and he thought you'd never looked more beautiful than you did right then.

But then you said it.

"I don't... love you anymore."

Johnny froze, the words lodging deep in his chest like shrapnel. He blinked once, convinced he'd misheard, but when his gaze met yours, glassy-eyed and unfocused, you didn't take them back.

"...What?" His voice was raw, fragile.

You turned your head to look at him, lips parting with quiet finality. "I don't love you anymore, Johnny."

The world tilted beneath him. His pulse roared in his ears. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.

"Love..." His throat was tight, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. "What d'ye mean by that?"

You sat up unsteadily, pulling away from his touch.

"Is there someone else?" he asked before he could stop himself, the question tasting like acid on his tongue.

"No, Johnny," you whispered, shaking your head. "There isn't anyone else."

You dragged in a shaky breath, throwing the covers aside as you stood on trembling legs. "But how can I love someone I barely see? Someone I barely talk to?" Your voice cracked on the last word, anger slipping through the drunken fog.

"You aren't here, Johnny," you choked out, tears shining in your eyes. "Even when you're home... you're not here."

The words gutted him.

"I need stability. Connection." Your voice trembled, sharp and breaking all at once. "I need things that matter in a relationship — and we don't have that. Not anymore."

Johnny just stared at you, chest heaving, his throat working around words he couldn't form. Everything inside him screamed to fix this, but nothing came out. After everything — the nights away, the sacrifices, the promises — was this where they ended up?

A humorless laugh escaped him, hollow and bitter. "Christ, lass... so that's it, aye? One rough patch and ye're done?"

Your face crumpled, guilt flashing before it hardened into anger. "Don't twist this on me, Johnny! I've tried—"

"Aye, and so have I!" His voice rose, cracking under the weight of everything he couldn't say. "Every bloody day, I try. I come home to you, always to you, and it's still not enough, is it?"

Your tears fell freely now, shoulders shaking, but you didn't look away. "It's not about enough, Johnny. It's about us. And we're..." Your voice faltered, breaking on the word. "...We're breaking."

Silence swallowed the room. Johnny stared at you, his chest tight, his heart pounding like gunfire in his ears. He couldn't breathe in this space, couldn't think past the noise in his head — so he grabbed his pillow, his blanket, and walked out.

The door shut softly behind him.

The next morning was worse. Johnny woke stiff on the couch, the ache in his back nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He didn't go back to the bedroom. Couldn't. Instead, he moved through the flat like a ghost — silent, withdrawn, careful to avoid you at every turn.

Separate beds. Separate routines. Separate lives.

Every time Johnny heard your footsteps in the hall, he'd slip into another room. Every time you entered the kitchen, he'd leave his coffee untouched and walk out. The air between you was suffocating, heavy with words neither of you dared to speak.

At night, he lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering when their home stopped feeling like one.

By the third day, he started leaving — disappearing for hours, aimless drives with no destination. He told himself it was to clear his head, but deep down, he knew it was because being near you hurt too damn much.

On the fourth morning, Johnny slung his jacket over his shoulder, keys in hand, ready to escape the walls closing in around him. But as he reached the front door, you were there — standing between him and the exit, blocking his path.

Johnny's jaw clenched, his expression unreadable as his blue eyes met yours.

"Ye got somethin' to say, love?" he asked, voice low, clipped, cold in a way you'd never heard before.

When you didn't answer, his tone sharpened, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Go on, then. Say it. Wanna rip my heart from my chest some more? Do it. Wanna tear my world apart?"

He took a step closer, his tall frame towering over your smaller one, the scent of whiskey and worn leather clinging to him.

"Do it," he repeated, his voice rough, breaking under the weight of it all. "Canne be much worse than what ye did to me a few days ago. Do yer worst, luv."

His knuckles whitened around the keys in his hand, shoulders tense, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

And yet... even now, even standing there shattered, Johnny couldn't stop loving you. Couldn't make himself walk away. Couldn't imagine a life without you in it.

If you told him to go, he would. Not because he wanted to — God, no — but because you asked him to. Because he'd do anything to make you happy. Even if it destroyed him in the process.

The silence stretched thin between you, heavy and suffocating, waiting to break.