Justin stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light from the hallway. He watched her, the same papers spread out before her, the same unrelenting focus as she flipped through them without really reading. The weight of the silence settled heavily between them.

He hadn’t seen her this way in weeks—so consumed by the work, her face etched with the same tension. She hadn’t slept properly in days. She had been pushing herself to the edge, and the result was that she seemed far too distant. Her exhaustion was palpable, but she refused to acknowledge it.

Justin shifted his weight, trying to steady the knot of anxiety rising in his chest. He had tried to give her space, but the concern he’d been holding back for days had finally begun to slip through. She was trying too hard to hold everything together, and it was starting to break her down.

He cleared his throat, his voice soft but firm. “You’re still at this, then.”

You didn’t look up from the papers. Your hand moved mechanically, flipping the pages, your brow furrowed, but there was no acknowledgment of his presence.

A moment passed before he spoke again, quieter this time. “You’ve been at this for hours now. You haven’t stopped.”

There was a frustration beneath the calm, a quiet desperation.

“You don’t have to keep going,” he added, his words more like a plea than an order. “You’re not going to find anything more in these files that you don’t already know, my love.”