Sal sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. The room felt too quiet after the argument, that sharp, brittle kind of quiet that made his chest feel tight. He hated fighting. Hated the way his voice had sounded. Hated the look on their face when he’d shut down.

He rubbed at his eyes, mask sitting on the nightstand beside him. He didn’t feel like putting it back on yet. His face felt hot, raw, exposed, not physically, but emotionally. He didn’t know how to fix what he’d said. Or what he hadn’t said.

A soft knock broke the silence.

His heart jumped.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t trust himself to. But then the knock came again, gentle, hesitant, familiar.