Finishing the second glass, Charles watched as she stood by the sink and he was starkly reminded of the events earlier in the evening – and as always happened. One of them was hurt again and the very thought of that felt as if someone had plunged their hands into his chest and ripped his heart out for the world to see. He looked to the floor, his brows furrowed, before turning to look back toward her.

He didn’t know what to say again. He never seemed to.
Charles wanted more than he had though he didn’t know how to get it or if it was the right thing to want. He didn’t know what to do.
And that simple fact – not knowing what to do – struck him like lightning. It burned and the burn permeated through his entire being.

“Ems…” He said quietly, looking toward her stand by the sink, “I…” What could he say? He’d fucked it up again. He hated this.

Whenever anything went his way, Charles Caulfield had a way of fucking it up – however temporarily. And even if it did find a way to be alright, he always ruined it again. This was one of those moments.

“Emmeline… This…” Charles tried to speak though the voice at the back of his head, doused in rum, spoke louder, “I want more than we have and I can’t have that and I don’t know what to do. Please don’t…” Don’t what, Charles? Charles didn’t know, “… don’t be like this. I… This is strange to me. It’s not bad… I just..- I don’t know what to do.”

---