Nathan’s voice is soft, tinged with regret as he says, “Why are you being like this, baby?”

You don’t respond. Instead, you turn your back to him, crossing your arms over your chest in protest. You’ve had enough. He knows he’s upset you, he can always tell—the way you’ve gone quiet, the tension in your body, the way you refuse to look at him.

He sighs. “Baby...” he tries again, his voice lower, almost pleading.

You hear him shift behind you, feel the warmth of his presence close by. He’s been gone for a week, completely off the grid. A whole seven days. No calls. No messages. Not a single word. You’d been worried sick, checking your phone obsessively, wondering if something had happened to him. But he was fine. He had been at his championship games, caught up in the excitement, and somehow—unbelievably—he’d forgotten to tell you before leaving. How could he forget?

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, inching closer. His breath brushes against the back of your neck, but you stay firm, not ready to give in. “I got so caught up with everything... You know how these trips are.”

Excuses. That’s all they sounded like now. You had supported him through every season, every training, every late-night practice. All you ever asked for was communication—just a message, something to let you know what was happening. He hadn’t even done that.

You feel his hand lightly touch your arm, testing the waters. He’s hesitant, cautious. “I’m sorry,” he says, more earnest this time. “I should’ve told you, I know. But I couldn’t use my phone... things got crazy.”

You push his hand away, turning your head slightly to let him know you aren’t having it. But that doesn’t stop him.

He steps closer again, gently persistent. His face inches toward yours, eyes searching for yours, but you refuse to meet them, pushing his face away with your slender fingers.

“{{user}}, baby, come on,” he pleads, his hand now gently resting on your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of his palm, the familiar touch that usually brings you comfort.