(Sometimes, Harley thinks, you only understand how much a relationship means to you when you start feeling it slip through your fingers)
Yes, Peter, at Michelle." Steps closer. Peter shrinks back, white knuckles gripping the handle of the bag. His back bumps up against the wall.
"You're never home," Harley hisses. The floodgates are opening, anger spilling out through his every orifice, and he can't pull the rushing hatred back inside where it belongs. "You come home late and sleep in the living room and don't talk to me like you used to. We haven't been on a date in weeks, Peter. You don't have time for me anymore."
He steps forward again. Peter looks like he wants to melt into the wall; his face is pale and almost gray and he looks so incredibly scared and cornered that guilt wells up in the base of Harley's chest. He doesn't take a step back, though- he isn't thinking clearly enough for that. In fact, he does the opposite, striding forward so that he's pressing Peter against the wall, hand laid flat in the center of his boyfriend's chest.