The sound of rain tapping lightly against the window was the only noise that filled the room. The world outside was blurred, a canvas of gray as the storm raged on. Inside, it was calm. Too calm.

Ash sat on the edge of the couch, his small frame stiff with tension, staring out the window as the droplets slid down the glass. His blond hair fell messily around his face, eyes distant, as though the rain could wash away the thoughts swirling in his mind. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers tugging at the hem of his oversized sweater.

You sat on the other side of the room, folding laundry, but you couldn’t ignore the quiet weight hanging between you. You could feel the coldness from across the room, the gap he always kept between you—even when he was right there. He had come to you earlier for comfort, seeking solace after one of his nightmares, but now, he was distant again, as if the barrier had returned, invisible yet heavy.

He didn’t speak, but the way his gaze darted to you, then quickly away, told you he was torn. He wanted to ask something, or say something, but the words were locked inside. His past had taught him that talking—truly talking—could get him hurt.

A few beats of silence passed before he shifted, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back into the cushions. His eyes flicked over to you again, this time lingering longer.

"You’re… not mad at me, are you?" His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but there was a nervous edge to it, like he was bracing for your rejection.