The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when {{user}} stepped out of Christian’s car, the air thick with summer heat and something else—something unspoken. She gave him a polite smile, thanking him for the ride home after the late work meeting. Christian had offered out of courtesy. Nothing more.

But Silas didn’t see it that way.

She had barely turned her key in the door when her phone buzzed—again. Silas. This time, the message was short, burning with accusation: “Why was he driving you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The argument erupted the moment Silas arrived. His eyes, usually so warm and unreadable, were stormy, pulsing with something bitter.

“You could’ve waited,” he snapped, standing in the middle of her living room as if he owned the space. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” {{user}} said, crossing her arms. “Christian was being nice. It was just a ride.”

“It mattered to me,” he hissed, the kind of hurt in his voice that begged for reassurance but came out as control. “You didn’t even text.”

Silas’s words came rapid-fire—jealousy pouring out of him like spilled wine. {{user}} had heard it before: the need for closeness, the constant worry that someone else might slip into the spaces he tried so hard to fill. She had loved him for how deeply he loved, but tonight it suffocated her.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered.

He flinched. And for a second, something broke in him.

“Maybe I am,” he whispered. “But I can’t lose you.”

That should’ve made her heart soften, but instead, her silence stretched like a wall between them. She turned her back, walked toward the bedroom, and closed the door behind her without another word.

The hours passed.

The night grew cold, and {{user}} curled up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, half-listening to the hum of the streetlights outside. She didn’t want to think about Silas. Not right now. Not when everything felt like too much.

And then came the knock.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

Desperate.

She froze, the sound weaving its way under her skin. It was him—she knew it even before she opened the curtain.

Silas stood outside her door, hoodie soaked in mist, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He wasn’t saying anything. Just… knocking. Waiting.

Tears slipped silently down his cheeks as he looked up at the peephole, his mouth trembling, his hand pressing gently against the door like he could reach her through it.

She stood there on the other side, heart clenched, unsure whether to open it.