Ian perched on the edge of the bed, the cheap wooden frame groaning under his weight as he shifted. In his hand, a short tumbler of whiskey caught the dim lamplight—amber, half‑gone, the ice long since melted into watery nothing. His dark eyes were fixed on the closed door, unblinking, waiting. The silence in the room had thickened into something heavy, like smoke. An hour had passed since you’d stormed out, telling him to “cool off.” Now, alone with the echo of raised voices, he could finally admit it: he’d been a dick.

He didn’t even remember the spark of the fight—something trivial, a snapped word over nothing, a grievance that felt enormous in the heat of the moment and now shriveled under the weight of regret. He’d said things he couldn’t take back. So had you. But that didn’t excuse him. His jaw tightened as he replayed it: the sharp edge in his voice, the way he’d dismissed your hurt. Pride had fueled him then. Now, only shame remained.

The floorboards creaked faintly in the distance—finally.

The doorknob turned slowly, the metallic click too loud in the hush. His breath caught.

You stepped inside.

The door shut behind you with a soft, deliberate thud—not a slam, but a quiet declaration of distance. You didn’t glance his way. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, avoiding the space where he sat like a ghost in the dim room. You moved straight to the bed, the hem of your shirt brushing the edge of the mattress as you sat. Your shoulders were stiff, your movements precise, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile wall you’d built between you.

Ian watched you pull back the covers. It was only 9 p.m. The red digits of the alarm clock glowed like accusing eyes from the nightstand. You never slept before 1 a.m., not unless you were ill—or trying to disappear.

He set the glass down carefully, the clink of crystal against wood sounding louder than it should. His fingers lingered on the cool surface for a moment, steadying himself. When he turned to face you, his voice came out low, rough at the edges—soft, but not weak.

“…You’re going to sleep already?”

The words hung in the air, tentative. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t dare. But his gaze never left yours, searching for a crack in the ice.