A/N: I cried when I wrote this. So I think there should be a trigger thing. The name of the song title should be a giveaway.

He lay there, holding her tightly. Even asleep she was so perfect, her eyelashes with its tiny curls, her pouty lips when she slept. There was no word that could succinctly describe her.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so much." He pulls her flushed to his body, holding her so tightly and then she was gone. All that was left was the spent cube lying where she had been. He shudders, hand reaching out for the dull blue cube.

'Tell me you want me to stay and I will. Tell me to leave and I will.'

Brock puts himself upright, head leaning against his knees. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he remembers her.

She spins in a circle, throwing her head back laughing. He pulls her back in a fluid movement, swaying in the music. She had never looked better in that dark red dress and the exposed neck that her new haircut showed drew his attention. 'You're so gorgeous,' he bends to her ear, saying sotto voce before trailing her neck with light feathery kisses. Gorgeous was understating it. He had been half-hard when he saw her step out of the elevator. Her body vibrates with her laughter and it drifted above them like musical notes in the wind.

"Why didn't you-" he fists the bedsheets and hurls the cube at the wall with an angry cry.

"Brock, want to go sparring?" Steve asks from the doorway.

Brock is no fool. He knows Steve's impeccable timing was not a coincidence. They watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to slip, waiting for him to chase after that guy like a madman with a death wish. He was a madman with a death wish. There was no point living without her.

He couldn't even live in the apartment they bought together. Her memory haunts him everywhere. Where they had sex at every surface they could when they got the apartment furnished, the kitchen when he made spaghetti for her, the pots that she burnt while trying to make mac and cheese. The couch where they'd make footie fights over whose foot would reign on top of the pile for the night, the sheets where they made sweet love.

He misses her so much that Brock never imagine it could physically hurt. Every time he stepped through that door, he could imagine her laughing from one of the rooms, or sitting by the window whining about how hungry she was.

He punches angrily at Steve, he knows Steve is letting him land blows, that sometimes it feels good to just hurt someone.

"I can't do this anymore," he pants from his supine position on the floor later. "There's this hole in my chest like nothing could fill it again." They wouldn't understand. None of them had lost a bonded soulmate.

"I can't-" His voice sounds tight as though he had to strain to tear the words from his throat. "I can't live without her. I keep thinking I hear her laughing at those stupid cat videos, waking up with her in my arms. I can't-"

Steve sits beside him, pulling his hand wrap off. "When I was born, I had a soulmark." He tugs the pants up, exposing a little script on his ankle. It was greyed out just like his. "She died in the war, she was a nurse. I thought I couldn't go on. I kept dreaming if I reached out, I could see her again, kiss her again. She was the most beautiful dame."

He continues, playing with the handwrap with the saddest look Brock had ever seen on him. "I won't promise it'll ever go away, some days will be harder than others but one day you'll go on without thinking her and the memory of her will fade. But the memory of her will always remain to remind you of how much she loved you."

Brock's body racks silently. He palms his eyes, feeling the reassurance of Steve's hand on his back.