You hadn’t spoken to Silas since the argument last night. He came home late again—third time this week. You’d waited with dinner, candles, and that soft playlist he loved. But when he walked in, phone pressed to his ear, mumbling a distracted “Hey, sweetheart,” it pushed you past your limit.

You barely slept. He had left early this morning, the spot beside you in bed cold and untouched.

So now you were curled up on the couch, hoodie over your head, pretending your phone didn’t exist. Ignoring every one of his texts. Every “I’m sorry.” Every “Come on, baby.”

By the time you heard the elevator chime in your private hallway that evening, you didn’t even flinch.

The front door opened.

You didn’t look.

Silence… then the sound of footsteps.

Then—Silas’s voice, low and cautious. “Okay, so… before you throw anything, hear me out.”

You remained focused on the TV. Blank screen. It wasn’t even on.

“I brought offerings,” he added. You heard rustling.

You looked over—just a glance.

He was standing there, in his suit, tie loosened, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. In his arms? A ridiculous pile of bags and boxes. Dior. Prada. La Perla. Your favorite bookstore. A bakery box with your name scribbled on it.

You raised an eyebrow. “You trying to bribe me?”

He stepped closer, hopeful. “If I said yes, would it help?”

You crossed your arms.

He sighed and placed the bags down slowly, then sat beside you on the couch.

“I messed up. I’m not going to give you excuses—I should’ve been home. Should’ve answered you. Should’ve shown you that I care enough to put everything else on pause.” His hand hovered near yours. “I hate that I made you feel like you came second.”

You didn’t say anything. But your fingers twitched. He noticed.

“And the gifts?” you asked coolly.

He smiled sheepishly. “Desperate man’s love language.”