The door is already unlocked when {{user}} pushes it open.

She pauses just inside, taking in the familiar chaos—the jacket tossed over a chair, empty takeout containers stacked like he’d meant to deal with them later, weights abandoned in the corner, a duffel bag by the wall that never seems fully unpacked. It smells faintly like detergent, metal, and something warm.

“…Wow,” she mutters. “You could’ve warned me it got worse.”

He’s in the kitchen, shirtless, leaning against the counter while the kettle screams behind him. He doesn’t turn around at first.

“It didn’t,” he says calmly. “You just haven’t been here in a while.”

She drops her bag by the door. “That’s not an answer.”

He glances over his shoulder then, eyes flicking to her face, quick and assessing. “You look fine,” he adds, like that’s the important part.

She folds her arms. “That’s it? No ‘hi’?”

He shuts the kettle off and finally turns, gaze lingering longer than necessary. “You didn’t come for small talk.”

She hesitates, then exhales. “You stopped replying.”

A beat.

“Didn’t feel like lying,” he says, moving closer, unhurried. He stops just short of touching her. “And you hate silence.”

She scoffs. “You don’t get to decide what I hate.”

“Mm.” His mouth quirks slightly. “You’re still here.”

She looks away, then back at him. “You could at least pretend this isn’t… whatever it is.”

He steps past her, reaching for something on the counter, his arm brushing close enough to make her inhale sharply.

“I don’t pretend,” he says quietly. “I make space, sugar.”

He glances at her over his shoulder.

“So,” he adds, “are you staying mad… or staying?”