Metallica one shots and headcannons

Where did you sleep last night? pt3 (James Hetfield one shot)

For Mor4566y7544  that asked for th third part❤

The days blur together after I leave James behind in the cold, silent night. Each one is heavy with a suffocating emptiness, yet I force myself to keep going. Every hour feels like a battle against the memories that claw at the edges of my mind—his smile, the way his laughter used to light up a room, the warmth of his arms when the world felt too big. I hate myself for missing those moments because now they feel like lies, fractured pieces of something I'll never get back.

The nights are the worst. Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I can still feel the ghost of his presence. But I remind myself of the betrayal, the sting of his words, and the image of his regretful face under the streetlights. I hold onto the pain because it's all I have left. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I wonder if he's feeling it too.

James sits on the edge of his bed, the same bed that now feels like a foreign place. The sheets are cold, the silence of the house deafening. He hasn't slept properly in days, haunted by the look on my face as I turned and walked away. The realization of what he's done consumes him like a slow, cruel burn.

He reaches out instinctively, his hand brushing the empty space beside him. It feels wrong. The bed's too big without her, and the coldness is unbearable. He stares at the ceiling, his chest aching, and for the first time in years, he cries. The tears come without warning, hot and relentless, streaming down his face as the weight of his mistakes crashes over him.

"I ruined everything," he whispers into the silence, his voice breaking. "I lost her."

Memories flood his mind, unrelenting. The way she used to laugh at his dumb jokes, the way she'd curl up against him on the couch, her head on his chest as we watched movies. The quiet moments where no words were needed, where just being together was enough. Those memories cut deeper than anything, a cruel reminder of what he threw away.

When the knock came late one evening, I almost didn't answer it. I was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, my eyes puffy from crying. But something made me stand, my feet moving of their own accord. When I opened the door, the sight of James hit me like a tidal wave.

He stood there, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his face pale and tear-streaked. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles, and he looked utterly broken. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper in one trembling hand, but it was the expression on his face that shattered me. He looked like a man drowning, reaching out for a lifeline he didn't think he deserved.

"Y/n," he choked out, his voice hoarse and raw. "Please... I need to talk to you."

I froze, my hand tightening on the doorframe. Seeing him hurt, and I hated that it did. Hated that part of me wanted to reach out, to touch his face and tell him everything would be okay. But it wouldn't be okay. Not after what he'd done.

"There's nothing left to say," I said, my voice cold and flat. "You made your choice, James."

"I know," he said, his voice trembling, "but I—I can't do this. I can't be without you. I don't deserve for you to listen, but I'm begging you. Please. Please let me explain."