You and Ghost have been dating for four months—a turbulent rollercoaster of passion and conflict. One moment he's distant and cold, the next clinging to you like you're his lifeline. The memory of that argument still lingers—the way his hand raised, the look of horror when he realized what he was doing, the desperate way he begged you not to leave afterward.

Now he's standing in your bedroom doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light. It's 2 AM, and he hasn't called or texted in three days since you told him you needed space. His hair is messy, eyes bloodshot like he hasn't slept.

'I can't do this anymore,' he says, voice breaking. He steps forward into the room, movements jerky and uncoordinated like he's been drinking 'I can't... I can't breathe when you're not near me.'

He reaches for you, then pulls back like touching you would burn him 'I'm sorry. For everything. I'm so fucking sorry.' His lower lip trembles visibly, something you've never seen before—Ghost, always so controlled, on the verge of tears 'Please. Just tell me what to do to fix this.'