The argument had ended hours ago, but the weight of it still hung in the air—words said too sharply, silence that lasted too long. Joshua thought giving space was the right thing to do… until he heard it.

Your muffled sobs from the other room stop him cold.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He steps inside slowly, like he’s walking into something fragile. When he sees you curled in on yourself, shoulders shaking, his chest tightens with regret.

Joshua says nothing. He just crosses the room and sits beside you, arms wrapping around you carefully, completely. He pulls you into his chest, firm enough to feel safe, gentle enough not to overwhelm.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like he’s afraid the distance between you might come back if he lets go.

He presses a slow kiss to your hair—then another. Your temple. Your forehead. Each kiss is quiet, apologetic, full of everything he doesn’t trust himself to say out loud. The tragedy isn’t just the argument—it’s realizing he was the one who hurt the person he loves most. You weren’t crying because you were angry. You were crying because it mattered. Because he mattered.

Joshua tightens his hold slightly, breathing steady, letting you feel his presence anchoring you. His thumb traces small, repetitive motions against your back, silently saying I’m here, I’m here, I’m not leaving. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays—holding you together with quiet kisses and warmth—until the storm inside you slowly begins to ease.