Six two – Frederik Andersen
summary: the canes lose 6:2 in game one of the eastern conference finals and Freddie takes his frustrations out on you.
pairing: Frederik Andersen x female!reader
tropes/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, Freddie being a massive douche and a shitty boyfriend, happy ending
authors note: I wrote this to cope with how game 1 ended lol.
The apartment was too quiet when Freddie came home.
Not normal quiet. Not tired-after-a-game quiet.
This felt sharp. Heavy. Like the walls themselves knew better than to make noise around him right now.
You heard the front door open and close harder than usual. The rattle of keys hitting the kitchen counter. His shoes scraping across the floor.
For a second, you stayed where you were on the couch, blanket tucked around your legs, watching the muted highlights cycle across the TV screen. You had turned the volume off after the fifth replay of Montreal´s sixth goal.
After sweeping both Ottawa and Philadelphia, everyone had acted like Carolina was untouchable.
Analysts talked about destiny. About momentum. About Freddie looking unbeatable.
Tonight, he looked exhausted.
You heard him yank open the fridge. Then slam it shut.
You inhaled slowly before standing. “Hey.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He stood at the kitchen islands in sweats and a Hurricanes hoodie, shoulders rigid beneath the fabric. His hair was still damp from the shower at the arena.
He looked bigger when he was angry, like the tension expanded him.
You walked closer carefully. “Do you want tea?”
“No.” His voice came out flat.
You hated this part after losses.
The waiting. The trying to figure out which version of him had come home.
Sometimes he was withdrawn. Sometimes quiet and clingy. Sometimes he wanted to rant for an hour straight about defensive breakdowns and bad rebounds and missed assignments.
He rubbed both of his hands over his face hard enough to drag his skin down. “Unbelievable.”
“You guys will bounce back.”
He laughed once under his breath, but it was humorless. “Yeah?”
The words weren’t cruel by themselves, but his tone made them sting anyway.
You leaned against the counter. “I know enough to know one loss doesn’t end a series.”
“One loss?” He finally looked at you, eyes dark and exhausted. “Did you watch the game?”
“Then you saw us get embarrassed.”
“You saw me get embarrassed.”
“You had a bad night,” you said softly. “It happens.”
His jaw tightened instantly. “A bad night,” he repeated.
You already knew you had said the wrong thing. “Fred…”
“No, seriously. That´s what you think it was?” He shook his head sharply. “Jesus Christ.”
You folded your arms loosely around your stomach. “I was trying to make you feel better.”
You looked at him for another second before nodding once. “Okay.”
He paced away from the island and back again, unable to settle.
You could practically see the game replaying behind his eyes. Every goal. Every mistake. Every save he should have had.
“I should´ve stopped at least three of those,” he muttered.
“You still stopped a ton.”
“No, it doesn’t.” His voice rose suddenly. “Not in the playoffs.”
You flinched at the volume.
His eyes flicked to your face, but he kept going anyway. “We finally get momentum, finally play the way we´re supposed to, finally not face fucking Florida, and then I let in six fucking goals.”
“I know what you´re trying to do.”
The frustration in his voice cut deeper now. Not loud exactly. Just sharp. Worn thin.
You stared at him. “Then why are you talking to me like that?”
He exhaled hard through his nose and looked away.
When he spoke again, his voice was colder. “Because you keep saying things that don’t help.”
The knot in your chest tightened. “Sorry for trying.”
He laughed again, bitter this time. “You think this is hard for you? Sitting at the arena watching?”
Your face fell slightly. “That´s not what I said.”
“No, but you´re standing there acting wounded because I´m upset.”
“I´m not acting wounded.”
You pressed your lips together.
He kept pacing. “I don’t need a pep talk right now.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
“I need everyone to stop pretending this wasn’t humiliating.”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
“But you´re minimizing it.”
“I´m trying to support you.”
“Well, maybe you´re just bad at it tonight.”
The words landed hard. Silence immediately following after them.
You could tell from the flicker across his face that he knew it too, but instead of apologizing, he looked away again.
Something in your started aching then. Not dramatic. Just tired.
You had spent years learning how to love him through losses. Through road trips and injuries and media criticism and the pressure he carried everywhere.
You knew hockey mattered to him more than almost anything. You knew he got cruel with himself before he ever got cruel with anyone else.
But sometimes it still hurt being the nearest target.
You swallowed carefully. “That was mean.”
“I´m not in the mood to babysit feelings right now.”
Your expression hardened instantly. “Wow.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I can´t do this.”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “The whole emotional conversation.”
“You started the conversation.”
“No, I came home after getting shelled in a playoff game and somehow I´m now comforting you.”
The disbelief on your face deepened. “You really thing that´s what´s happening?”
You looked at him for a long moment. The exhaustion in his posture. The anger radiating off him. the shame underneath all of it.
You understood all of it, but that almost made it worse. Because you understood why he was hurting, but not why he thought hurting you would help.
He frowned slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to go calm.
You stepped away from the counter. “I´m going to bed.”
He scoffed softly under his breath. That finally snapped something in you.
“You know what?” You turned back around sharply. “I get that you´re upset. I do. But I didn’t do anything to deserve your wrath.”
“I sat there all night worried about you. I waited for you to get here worried as hell because I knew you´d be miserable after this game, and the second you walked through the door you started taking it out on me.”
“I´m not taking it out on you.”
That made you even madded. “You told me I´m bad at supporting you.”
You didn’t let him finish. “And you basically called me selfish for having feelings.”
His expression tightened.
“You think I don’t know tonight sucked?” you continued, voice shaking now despite your effort to stay calm. “I watched your face after every goal. I watched the bench stop looking at you. I listened to the commentators tear you apart after the game.”
You immediately regretted saying that part, but you were too angry to stop.
“And somehow I´m still standing here trying to make sure you´re okay while you act like I´m your enemy.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I´m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
His head snapped back toward you. “Seriously?”
“No, Frederik, you don’t get to do that.” You shoot your head. “You don’t get to make me feel dramatic because you were awful to me.”
“I said a couple things because I´m pissed off.”
“You said hurtful things.”
Your laugh came out disbelieving. “Okay.”
You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.
You walked past him toward the hallway before he could say anything else. Your chest burned painfully now, anger and sadness mixing together until you couldn’t separate them.
Behind you, you heard him mutter something under his breath in Danish.
You almost turned around.
But you kept walking instead.
The guest room smelled faintly like clean laundry and dust.
You had changed the sheets last week after his parents visited, but nobody really used the room otherwise.
It felt colder than the rest of the apartment.
You brushed your teeth mechanically with a spare toothbrush you found under the sink, then climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
Your anger only grew the longer you laid there because the worst part was that you knew how badly he was hurting.
If he had just come home devastated instead of angry, you would have held him for hours.
You would have listened to every replay of every goal. You would have reminded him over and over again that one game didn’t erase everything he had done to get Carolina there, but instead he had looked at you like you were another problem to deal with.
Your eyes burned, making you roll onto your side and pull the blanket higher.
From down the hallway you could hear faint movement.
Cabinets opening. Closing. The TV turning on for a minute then off again.
At one point you heard footsteps outside the guest room door.
Then they moved away again.
You checked your phone eventually.
You hated going to bed angry. Especially being angry with him, but you also hated how easy it was for him to assume you would absorb whatever mood he brought home.
You thought about all the times you had swallowed hurt because you knew hockey consumed him during playoffs.
The snapped answers. The pacing. The sleepless nights after losses where he turned for hours not finding any sort of rest.
Most of the time he apologized quickly.
A while later, exhaustion finally started dragging you under.
Then the mattress dipped behind you and your eyes snapped open instantly and you turned your head enough to see him in the dark.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough. “Did I wake you?”
“You´re literally climbing into the guest bed at two in the morning.”
You pushed yourself halfway upright. “What are you doing?”
He sat there quietly for a second in his sweats and an old shirt, shoulders slumped now instead of tense.
In the dim light from the hallway, he looked wrecked.
Not angry anymore. Just sad. Heartbroken even.
“I didn’t want you in here alone.” He audibly swallowed. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You´re the reason I´m in here in the first place.”
The honesty in it took some wind out of your anger.
Still, you shook your head and moved farther toward the edge of the bed. “No. absolutely not. You don’t get to treat me like garbage and then decide you want cuddles.”
A faint wince crossed his face. “I know,” he repeated quietly.
“Then go back to the bedroom and let me sleep.”
He looked down at his hands and for a second you thought he might actually leave. Instead, he said, very softly and barely above a whisper, “I´m sorry.”
You crossed your arms over your chest. “That doesn’t magically fix it.”
“I know.” You hated how broken he sounded.
He rubbed at his face tiredly. “I was awful to you.”
“And I´m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
A lump formed in your throat immediately, which annoyed you because you were still so angry.
“You said I was bad at supporting you,” you repeated.
“You said I was making your shit night about me.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I know what I said. Every single stupid word.”
For a long moment neither of you spoke. Then quietly, he admitted, “I couldn’t stop thinking about those goals.”
Your angers softened, just a little bit. “I know.”
“I kept replaying all of them. Still do.”
He sounded miserable now. Empty.
“The second one should´ve been covered. The fourth one – fuck.” He pressed his palms into his eyes. “I knew where he was going and still missed it.”
He didn’t let you finish this time. “And everyone is acting like we´re suddenly falling apart.”
You could hear the humiliation in his voice.
Goalies carried losses differently. You had learned that early in your relationship.
Skaters could spread blame around. Goalies sat alone with every puck that got past them.
He looked at you finally, eyes exhausted and glassy in the dark. “I was so embarrassed tonight.”
Something in your twisted painfully and you softened a little more. Still, you could not forget what happened hours earlier. “That still doesn’t mean you get to hurt me like that.”
“And honestly, I don’t even think you realize how cruel you sounded.”
His face tightened. “I knew.”
He stared down at the blanket. “I knew while I was saying it.”
“Then why didn’t you stop? Why did you keep pushing and hurting me?”
Finally, he whispered, “Because I was so angry and I wanted someone else to feel bad too.”
The honesty of it hurt more than excuses would have.
You blinked at him. he looked miserable admitting it all to you. “I know that´s awful,” he muttered.
You let out a slow breath but there was no reason to sugar coat it. “Yes, that´s really awful.”
Another silence. Then he shifted slightly closer without touching you. Careful. Like he knew he hadn’t earned any closeness.
“I just…” His voice cracked faintly. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Your heart clenched immediately. Damn him for that.
You looked away toward the window because you knew that if you looked at him, you would give in immediately.
“I know you´re angry,” he continued softly. “You should be. Actually, you should throw me out right now for admitting I hurt you just so you felt as bad as I did.”
“But please, don’t make me go back to the bedroom alone.”
Your eyes stung again and you hated how quickly your anger immediately tangles with sympathy around him. hated how easy it was to remember that beneath all the sharpness and frustration was just a devastated man who had spent the last six hours blaming himself for everything.
Still, you forced yourself to say, “You can´t do this every time you lose.”
“You can´t just tear into me and then crawl into bed wanting me to comfort you.”
“And I´m still furious at you.”
You studied him carefully. There was no defensiveness left. No irritation. Just exhaustion and regret.
“You really hurt my feelings, Fred.”
“I know.” His voice dropped even softer. “I´m sorry,” he repeated.
You watched him for another long moment, then finally sighed through your nose and shifted reluctantly toward the middle of the bed again.
His shoulders loosened immediately.
“But we´re talking about this tomorrow,” you warned. “Actually talking.”
“No brushing it off because you´re embarrassed.”
“And if you snap at me again, you´re leaving.”
You pointed at him slightly. “And don’t think this means I forgive you yet.”
A tiny, tired huff of laughter escaped him. “Okay.”
You rolled your eyes with a tiny smile and laid back down.
For a second he stayed sitting where he was, almost hesitant to move. Then, carefully and slowly, he laid down beside you.
The second the mattress settled, he reached for you instinctively, but you caught his wrist halfway around your waist. “No.”
His face fell immediately.
“You can sleep here,” you reminded him firmly. “But I´m still furious.”
Still, you went on. “You don´t get to act like that and then expect everything to go back to normal because you apologize.”
His throat moved when he swallowed. “I know.”
He fully settled on his side of the bed after that, leaving enough space between you.
No argument. No guilt-tripping. Just quiet acceptance because he knew he fucked up.
The room settled into silence after that.
You turned onto your side with your back facing him and pulled the blanket high again. Your chest still felt tight with anger, even if the sharpest edge of it dulled.
Behind you, you could hear the careful way he was breathing. Like he was trying not to take up too much space.
After a while, he whispered a “Goodnight,” into the dark.
You hesitated, deciding between pretending to be asleep and answering him, then quietly answered, “Night.”
Eventually, his breathing evened out enough that you thought he might have fallen asleep, but sometime later, when you woke briefly and checked the clock glowing faintly on the nightstand, he was still awake.
You could hear it immediately.
The shifting sheets. The mattress creaking every few minutes. A frustrated exhale through his nose.
But you kept your eyes closed.
Another rustle behind you. Then stillness. Then movement again.
He was tossing constantly and you knew that meant his mind was still spiraling. Replaying the goals. The mistakes. The headlines that would wait for him in the morning.
You felt bad, but you were still angry enough that you stayed where you were.
A while later you woke again to him sitting up slightly behind you. Not touching you. Just sitting there.
The room stayed dark and quiet except for the sound of him rubbing both hands over his face.
That’s when you almost turned around to ask if he was okay, but then you remembered the things he said earlier. The way he had looked at you like your comfort was annoying him.
So, you stayed still again.
After another minute, the mattress dipped again as he laid back down.
Around five in the morning, you woke for a third time.
This time he was turned away from you completely, shoulders tense beneath the shirt he slept in.
Even in the dark you could tell he wasn’t sleeping deeply.
One of his hand clenched and unclenched against the blanket.
You stared at his back for a long moment. Then closed your eyes again.
The last time you woke that night, pale morning light filtered weakly through the curtains.
For one blissful second, you forgot everything. Then you realized two things at once.
First, you were warm. Second, Freddies arm was wrapped around you tightly.
Your eyes opened immediately.
At some point during the night, he had moved close enough that your back was pressed against his chest, one arm locked around your waist.
His face was half-buried against the back of your neck, breathing slow and warm against your skin.
You stared down at his arm. You didn’t even know when he had done it.
Carefully, trying not to wake him, you grabbed his wrist and lifted slightly to slide out. Instantly, his grip tightened around you.
Your eyes widened. “Fred…”
A rough sleepy sound left him, somewhere between a hum and a groan, and he tightened his grip again before burying his face deeper against your shoulder.
You blinked in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
One eye cracked open blearily. Then the memory of last night clearly hit him all over again, because his expression fell immediately. “Oh,” he rasped.
Still, he didn’t move, taking in the rest of the time he had with you in his arms.
You turned your head enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Move.”
You rolled your eyes instantly. “That´s not the issue right now.”
His grip loosened only slightly, but not enough for you to actually escape. “Please don’t be mad at me anymore.”
You let out a short laugh. “That´s not how it works, and you know it.”
“Then why are you holding me hostage at eight in the morning?”
A tiny, exhausted smile pulled weakly at the corner of his mouth. “Because you´re still here.”
Your expression flattened immediately. “That´s not romantic right now.”
He closed his eyes briefly like he physically felt the sting of that.
When he opened them again, they looked tired. Really tired. The kind of tired that came from no sleep and too much self-hatred.
“I was awful to you,” he admitted quietly.
“And you didn’t deserve it.”
His arm tightened slightly again, careful this time. “I´m really sorry.”
You sighed through your nose. “Fred.”
“No, I mean it.” His voice roughened. “I was angry and embarrassed, and I took it out on you because you were there.”
The blunt honesty made your chest tighten.
“You were trying to help me, and I acted like you were annoying me.”
“I just…” He swallowed hard. “I felt horrible after the game and then somehow I made you feel horrible too.”
Good, a mean part of you thought immediately. The you felt guilty for thinking it.
You shifted slightly, trying to sit up again.
This time he loosened his hold enough for you to turn toward him, but the second you faced him he reached for your hand like he couldn’t help himself.
You let him hold it for about three seconds before narrowing your eyes. “This is not back to normal.”
“You don’t get girlfriend privileges while I´m still furious with you.”
That actually made him look alarmed. “Girlfriend privileges?”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means stop trying out cuddle your way out of consequences.”
Despite the situation you were in, he let out a startled laugh.
You glared harder. “Don’t laugh.”
“You´re not charming right now.”
That only made him laugh again.
“You´re lucky I even let you sleep here.”
His face softened immediately. “Thank you for that.”
The sincerity in his voice annoyed you because it made it harder to stay angry. So, you pulled your hand back before he could kiss your knuckles or something equally manipulative.
“We´re talking before anything else.”
“No pretending this never happened.”
“No minimizing it because you were upset about hockey.”
“And you are absolutely not turning this around on me.”
You studied him carefully.
He looked genuinely ashamed. Not just apologetic because you were upset but actually upset with himself.
He rubbed tiredly at his eyes with one hand. “I barely slept.”
You stared at him flatly. “Good.”
That earned another tiny laugh from him.
You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t think being cute is helping.”
“I´m not trying to be cute.”
“You naturally sound pathetic when you´re sleep deprived.”
His mouth twitched. Then the humor faded again. “I hated hearing you cry last night.”
Your expression faltered slightly. “I wasn’t crying.”
You looked away. He watched you quietly for a second before speaking again, softer this time. “I really am sorry.”
“And I´ll talk about it properly, I promise.”
You finally pushed yourself upright, this time successfully escaping his arms. The cold air outside the blanket hit immediately.
Freddie stayed laying there watching you carefully, messy-haired and exhausted, eyes following every movement you made like he was afraid you would leave the room entirely.
You stood beside the bed and crossed your arms. “I´m making coffee,” you announced.
He nodded slowly. Then, cautiously: “Can I come with you?”
You stared at him for a second. Still pathetic. Still guilty. Still clearly needing comfort even while knowing he hadn’t earned it yet.
You sighed heavily. “Yes.”
The apartment stayed quiet while the coffee brewed.
Not tense in the explosive way it had been last night. Just fragile. Careful.
Frederik hovered near you like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was allowed to do yet. Normally mornings together were automatic—his hand on your waist while you reached for mugs, your body fitting against his without thought, sleepy conversation filling the kitchen.
Now there was space between you and he noticed every inch of it.
You leaned against the counter while the machine hissed softly. Frederik stood across from you in gray sweatpants, hair sticking up everywhere, eyes shadowed from almost no sleep.
Good, you thought again automatically. Then immediately felt bad about it again.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
Finally, he said quietly, “Can we talk now?”
You crossed your arms. “Depends.”
“Whether you’re actually going to listen.”
His face tightened instantly. “I will.”
You studied him for another second before nodding toward the kitchen table. “Sit.”
Something about the immediate obedience almost made you laugh.
He sat down across from you while you poured coffee into two mugs. You handed him one without a word before taking the chair opposite him.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Freddie rubbed a hand slowly over his jaw and exhaled.
“I don’t really know where to start.”
“The beginning would help.”
A faint grimace crossed his face.
He looked up at you properly. “I was embarrassed after the game.”
“No, like…” He shook his head slightly. “Really embarrassed. I felt sick the whole drive home.”
“I kept replaying everything. Every goal. Every mistake.” His fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “And then I came home already angry at myself, and you were trying to make me feel better…”
“And you decided that was annoying.”
His face twisted immediately. “When you say it like that, I sound awful.”
You took a sip of coffee.
Frederik looked down for a moment before continuing. “You were being nice to me and I just…” He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I wanted to stay angry.”
Your expression softened slightly despite yourself. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know.” He looked frustrated with himself. “But if I let you comfort me then I’d have to stop replaying everything for a second, and I didn’t feel like I deserved that.”
The honesty caught you off guard a little.
“You thought being comforted was…what? Letting yourself off easy?”
You stared at him. Goalies were genuinely insane sometimes.
“You do realize punishing yourself doesn’t magically change the score, right?”
A weak huff of laughter escaped him. “Apparently not.”
Your fingers tapped lightly against the mug. “You made me feel like I was stupid for trying to help you.”
His expression fell immediately. “I know.”
“And honestly? That hurt more than you being angry.”
“I can handle you being upset after losses,” you continued quietly. “I understand that. But I can’t handle you treating me like I’m the enemy because you hate yourself for one game.”
His eyes dropped to the table.
“You don’t get to decide I’m safe enough to hurt just because I love you.”
Freddie closed his eyes briefly.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And you’re right.”
The sincerity in his voice took some of the remaining fight out of you.
You sighed and looked down into your coffee.
For a while neither of you spoke. Then softly, he asked, “Are you still really angry?”
You looked up at him flatly. “Yes.”
“But I’m less angry than I was last night.”
He nodded once like that was more relief than he deserved.
Freddie pushed his mug aside and leaned forward slightly. “I need you to know something.”
“I never think you’re bad at supporting me.”
Your expression softened.
“Ever,” he added firmly. “You’re the best part of bad nights for me.”
The knot in your chest loosened a little. “You literally told me the opposite.”
“I know.” His face twisted again with regret. “And I hated myself for it immediately.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Immediately?”
“Before or after I went to the guest room?”
A reluctant smile flickered across his face. “Before.”
You tried not to smile back. Mostly succeeded.
Freddie watched you carefully for a second before speaking again, quieter now. “When you left the room, I realized how bad I’d messed up.”
“I kept thinking about how upset you looked.”
“And then you still waited hours before apologizing.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
“That’s because I didn’t.”
You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”
“You’re dangerously close to being forgiven because you look sad and that’s irritating.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Dangerously close?”
That finally got a real laugh out of him. Tired, but real. The sound softened something in you almost instantly.
He saw your expression change and his own gentled immediately.
You narrowed your eyes on instinct. “Absolutely not.”
You tried to stay firm for another few seconds. Then eventually sighed and stood up. The relief on his face was immediate and so genuine that your chest hurt a little.
The second you got close enough, he reached for your hips carefully - hesitating at the last second like he was waiting for permission.
You let him. His hands settled there lightly. “You’re still in trouble,” you informed him.
“You were a complete ass.”
“And if you ever tell me I’m bad at loving you again, I will leave you.”
His expression softened immediately. “I don’t think that,” he said quietly. “Not even a little.”
You looked at him for a long moment. Then finally stepped between his knees.
The second you did, he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face against your stomach with a long exhale like he’d been holding himself together for hours.
Your anger cracked fully at that. “Oh my God,” you muttered, resting a hand lightly in his hair. “You really are dramatic after losses.”
A muffled groan came from against your shirt.
“You act like the world is ending.”
“It felt like it yesterday.”
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers kept moving gently through his hair anyway.
For a minute he just held you there quietly. Then, voice muffled slightly, he admitted, “I was scared you’d stay mad.”
You shrugged one shoulder. “You looked pathetic this morning.”
A laugh shook through him before he tilted his head back enough to look up at you, expression softening again. “I really love you.”
Your chest squeezed painfully. “You’re lucky I love you too.”
“And next time you’re upset, use your words like an adult instead of emotionally terrorizing me.”
He actually looked embarrassed. “That bad?”
“You told me I was bad at supporting you.”
“Right.” He winced. “Jesus.”
He tightened his arms around you slightly. “I’m sorry.”
You studied him quietly for another second before finally leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
The relief on his face was almost immediate.
“There,” you muttered. “Don’t make it weird.”
A sleepy smile spread across his face for the first time since he’d gotten home.
He tugged at your waist gently until you finally gave in and let him pull you fully into his lap.
“You’re clingy today,” you complained weakly.
“I had a traumatic evening.”
Unfortunately, he sounded very confident about that now.
You sighed dramatically before wrapping your arms around his shoulders anyway. His entire body relaxed the second you did it.
That part always got you.
No matter how upset you were, the way he melted the second you touched him made it impossible not to remember how much he trusted you with the ugliest parts of himself.
He pressed his face against your neck and held you tighter.
“I’ll be better next time,” he murmured.
You rested your cheek lightly against his hair.
And this time, finally, you did believe him.