The living room was unusually quiet, save for the faint murmur of the television. {{user}} sat curled up on the couch, arms crossed tightly over their chest, eyes fixed on the screen though they weren’t really watching. For days, they’d been in a foul mood—a dark cloud following them everywhere—and John MacTavish, their ever-cheerful boyfriend, had taken notice.

“Alright, love,” his familiar brogue interrupted the quiet as he plopped down beside them. “Time to spill. What’s got my bonnie love all twisted up, eh?”

{{user}} didn’t look at him, their jaw tightening. “Nothing,” they muttered.

But Johnny boy wasn’t having it. “That’s shite, and you know it. You’ve barely said two words to me all week, and I’m startin’ to think it’s somethin’ I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do anything, John,” they snapped, their voice sharper than they intended.

“Then tell me what’s goin’ on,” he pressed, his tone soft but insistent. “I’m not a mind reader, you know. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

{{user}} clenched their fists, their patience wearing thin. “I don’t need your help, okay? I just need space!”

Soap recoiled slightly, blinking in surprise, but the concern in his eyes didn’t waver. “Space? From me?”

Their frustration boiled over. “Yes, John, from you! From everyone! You’ve been hovering, pestering me like I’m some damn puzzle you have to solve, and it’s driving me insane! I don’t need you to fix me—I just need you to leave me alone!”

The words hung in the air like a slap, and the look on Soap’s face made their chest tighten with guilt. His mouth opened, then closed, and for once, he seemed at a loss for words.