Hushed Willows My girl don't want me cause of my dirty laundry

He hadn't realized what he'd done until it was now too late.
He'd said it; said the name.
For a long stretch there is a loss for what to say, until a soft wait, baby, I'm sorry comes flying from his mouth. He reaches for her before he stops short yet again; the anger, the one he held so viscerally only seconds ago. Where had it gone?
No. He must hold onto it.
Look, he stifles himself down into a rumble. I'm not tryn'a hurt you. I just need you to understand. Do you understand? What I mean, when I say that it-- that I'm scared too? but it felt as if he was talking to a wall; there was nothing, no recognition as far as he could tell, only her own spiral.
Why was he doing this?