The argument was loud. Heated. Stupid, in hindsight.

Voices rose. Words neither of you meant came flying out like knives, slicing at soft places you both promised to protect. You hate fighting with him. But tonight, he pushed, and you shoved back harder. Pride stood where love used to fill the air.

Now it’s quiet.

The silence is heavier than the shouting ever was. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched. You see the twitch in his shoulder, the way his eyes avoid yours. You know that look.

He’s about to leave.

“Don’t,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He turns his back to you.

“Don’t you dare, Eli.” His name escapes your throat like it’s fragile. Your heart pounds.

His hand hovers over the doorknob, fingers flexing. Just one turn. Just one pull.

Your chest tightens, and your eyes begin to sting. You don’t want to beg. You don’t want to break. But the words come anyway.

“If you walk through that door… we’re done.”

Your voice cracks. You don’t even recognize it. “We’re over, Eli.”

He pauses. Frozen.

The door creaks open slightly, just enough to let in the cool night air. You can’t breathe. You swear the entire world stops spinning.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to leave.

You stand there, staring at his back, heart in pieces, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why won’t he turn around?

And then— He bolts.

Not out the door. But sideways. You blink in confusion as he suddenly veers toward the living room—where the sliding window is still cracked open from earlier.

“Eli?”

He doesn’t answer. He throws the window all the way open and, without a single word, climbs out of it like a damn action hero.

You rush forward, startled. “What the hell are you—”

From outside the window, you hear him say with maddening calm:

“You said the door. You didn’t say anything about the window.”

He turns to face you, standing on the front lawn with his hands stuffed into his jacket, like he didn’t just leap out of a first-floor window to dodge your ultimatum.