Disclaimer: Don't own what isn't mine.
Warning: Coarse language. Occasional (intentional) poor grammar.
When you come back…
I'll stuff my hands in my pockets, tilt my head, and casually ask you where you've been.
Where the hell have you been all goddamned night, I've been worried sick about you, and you look like shit.
I'll pretend like I haven't been sitting at the window, trying to catch a glimpse of you on the dark streets, wishing like hell that I had Soul Perception like you do, straining to catch that faint brushing of your soul against mine that I can only sense when you're nearby—which is why I hate it when you leave my side, you idiot.
I won't apologize, 'cause that wouldn't be cool. It wasn't my fault, anyway, and even as you stormed out, I could feel your guilt, and if I said sorry that would only make you feel worse, and shit, I would grovel at your feet if I thought it would do you one freakin' iota of good. Hell, this isn't even about what I said, and what you said—this is about something else entirely, isn't it? This is about that. This is because you are scared and broken. This is your pain and anger and uncertainty and fear getting in the way.
I'll play it off cool. I'll shrug at whatever lame excuse you make up and leave it alone. I'll throw myself on the couch and turn on the TV while you go to your room to stew, and even though it'll be tense, by morning, everything will be back to normal.
Right?
Damn. Who the hell am I kidding?
Because when you come back, I'm going to pull you against my chest and kiss you until there is no air left in your lungs and tell you that if you ever scare me like that again I will shackle you to me—scratch that, I am never letting you go period, and I will hold you in my arms for the rest of the night and savor each tear that soaks my scarred chest because even though it hurts, I love you.