The apartment was too quiet. Morning light slid through the blinds, cutting across the kitchen counter where TJ stood, the hum of the coffee machine the only sound filling the space. His hand gripped the mug too tightly, knuckles pale, the steam rising like smoke from an old wound that had not closed. He had not slept much, not that it mattered. His mind was still replaying Ian’s words from last night, sharp and unforgiving.

Ian had not come to bed. TJ had heard the motorcycle keys jingle, the door creak, then silence for hours. Now, when TJ turned his head, Ian was there leaning against the doorway, shirt loose on his frame, his expression unreadable. The scar on his ankle peeked out as he shifted his weight, arms crossed, like he was not sure if stepping into the kitchen would be surrendering too much.

TJ set the mug down harder than he meant to, the sound echoing between them. He did not look up, not right away. His pride still burned hot, his temper refusing to let go first. But the longer the silence stretched, the more it felt like a blade carving at him.

Finally, without turning, TJ muttered

“Coffee’s ready.”