Richard Speight Jr. One Shots

Last Floor To My Heart

Everything happened so fast.

Restlessly sitting on the living room couch, my crossed legs could not stop fidgeting as I waited for Mark to come home. A few minutes earlier, he had called me to say he was on his way home, and that he had something important to tell me when he would be back. When I had asked him why he could not simply tell me over the phone, he had answered it was too significant not to be discussed face-to-face. I had not argued any further, but deep down I knew damn well it was not like him to say a thing such as that.

Mark and I had been dating for almost two years, and this time we had spent together had been good to us. We had met on the set of Supernatural, and back then, it was clear to everyone that we hit it off right away; I was introduced to the plot as an endgame character, so I made my debut near the last seasons of the show. However, I had still been given the opportunity to play alongside Mark, even if only for a few times. And although I was instantly charmed by his Lucifer, I got to know him personally over time and consequently fell for him beyond his character.

It had taken us a while to officially get together, but once we did, we never let go of each other. And we both believed things would grow and evolve between the two of us, shifting our relationship into something more and more serious as time would go on. At least, that is what I believed in until I started noticing a change in Mark's behavior, a change in the way he would talk to me, and act around me. I had always brushed that feeling aside, convincing myself it was only a misinterpretation, a fabrication of my own paranoid mind. But with one simple phone call, all my suspicions had come flowing back up to the surface, and it was becoming hard to ignore them.

As I was getting deeply lost in thought, I suddenly heard the front door open and turned around, only to see Mark enter the living room in somewhat of a rush.

"Hey." He promptly let out without even looking at me.

"Hey..." I awkwardly said back.

I was searching for his eyes, but it was clear to me he was trying to avoid making eye contact with me.

"So... you wanted to tell me something?"

My stomach felt like a tangled bag of knots, hurting my guts, which had a bad feeling about what was about to take place.

"Yeah, we need to talk."

This sentence alone made me gulp and look down at my feet.

"Listen, [Y/N]..." Mark started with faint remorse. "I'm sorry... It truly pains me to say it, as much as it will pain you to hear it, but... we should break up."

I blankly stared at him, in a complete state of shock.

"But—"

"No." He cut me off with a sigh. "It's for the best, trust me."

What? Why? How? Have I done something wrong? Have you met another woman? Do you not love me anymore?

Questions began piling up in my mind, so many questions I wanted to ask him. But I was rendered unable to speak.

"I'm sorry." He said once more, still looking away from me.

His apologies were not fully sincere, I could feel it, I knew him well enough to feel it. But still, I was not able to talk back. All I could do was cry. And so I did: I cried miserably on this couch, feeling sorry for myself, wondering how pathetic Mark must have found me. As my thoughts started to overwhelm me, I finally managed to stand up and walked to our bedroom without a word. I grabbed my suitcase and my duffle bag and put them both on the bed; I rapidly gathered my things, which I had scattered across the room, and stuffed them all back inside my luggage. There was not much to collect, just the essentials: clothes, a book, and my computer. But I refused to leave in this house the only few things I had brought with me. I knew I was no longer wanted here; I knew I had to get out of there.