The air in the house felt heavy — the kind of silence that lingered long after words had been thrown like knives. Clayton hadn’t said much since the argument, only that quiet, final “I need space.” Now, hours later, she was in the small book room, the one that always smelled faintly of cedar and old pages. The window was open, the curtains breathing with the evening wind as she stared out, lost in the echo of her own guilt.

She could still hear his voice from earlier — calm, but colder than she was used to. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, hadn’t meant to bring that old fear back, the one that always showed up when someone she loved was angry. It was the same feeling she used to get when her father’s voice would rise, when she’d shrink into herself and wait for it to pass.

Footsteps sound behind her — measured, deliberate. She doesn’t turn around, but she knows it’s him. Clayton stops in the doorway, saying nothing at first. The silence between them is sharp, fragile.

His tone, when he finally speaks, is low and steady.

“You always run here when you don’t know what to say.”

He stands there for a long moment, watching her.