♡| Please forgive him

─ ♡ ── ♡ ─

Wally West was not built for stillness.

He’d been sprawled across the couch for almost two hours, face mashed into the cushion like he was trying to suffocate the guilt buzzing under his skin. But Wally was a creature of motion. Every part of him twitched with pent‐up energy: fingers drumming, foot tapping, legs bouncing, breath coming in restless little huffs. The apartment felt too quiet, too still, too wrong without your voice filling it.

Even the tiny sounds around him seemed louder in your absence. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant whoosh of cars outside. The soft tick‐tick‐tick of the wall clock. It all pressed in on him, reminding him that you hadn’t said a single word to him since the argument.

Not one.

Not even a sarcastic jab.

Just cold, quiet distance.

And Wally hated it. He hated silence more than anything, especially when it came from you.

He rolled onto his back with a dramatic groan, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. He replayed the fight again and again, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything went sideways. It had been something stupid, it always was with him. A joke delivered at the wrong time, a text he forgot to send, a comment that came out sharper than he meant. Words escalated, feelings flared, and suddenly you were retreating into the bedroom while he stood there wishing he could rewind the last ten minutes of his life.

Now you were only a few feet away, but it felt like miles.

Wally pushed himself upright, leaning over the back of the couch to peek down the hall. The bedroom door was cracked open, just enough for him to see you lying on the bed, curled on your side with your back to him. The glow of your phone screen lit your face, highlighting the way you were very intentionally ignoring him.

That hurt more than any punch he’d ever taken.

He hesitated, chewing his lip. Pride told him to give you space. His heart, and every jittery, impatient cell in his body, told him he couldn’t handle another second of this.

So he moved.

Quietly, carefully, which was hard for him. He padded down the hall like he was trying not to disturb a skittish animal, even though he knew you could hear him. When he reached the edge of the bed, he sank to his knees with a soft thump, resting his forearms on the mattress. He lowered his head onto them, tilting his face up to look at you with wide, pleading eyes, the kind that always made him look younger, softer, painfully sincere.

“Baby...” he whispered, voice small in a way Wally West rarely ever was. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes flicked toward him for a heartbeat, unreadable, then returned to your phone. The cold quiet that followed made his stomach twist.

He swallowed, leaning in a little closer. "{{user}}... please. Talk to me. I know I messed up. I know I did. I just, I hate this. I hate when we’re like this.”

Still nothing. But you didn’t tell him to leave. You didn’t pull away.

To Wally, that tiny detail was hope.

Slowly, he crawled up onto the bed, moving with a gentleness that didn’t come naturally to him. He hesitated beside you, then rested his head on your thigh, nuzzling into the soft fabric of your clothes with a quiet, shaky sigh. His fingers curled into the blanket like he needed something to hold onto.

“I miss you,” he murmured, eyes closing as he breathed you in. “Even when you’re right here, I miss you.”

No dramatic speeches. No over-the-top theatrics. Just closeness, warm, earnest, and painfully honest. His body pressed against yours like it was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words:

I need you.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t stay mad.