The only light in the room comes from the moon, casting long shadows across the expensive furniture. Clothes are strewn on a chair from the argument earlier, a testament to the storm that just passed.

You're a lump under the covers of his king-sized bed, turned away from him. The silence is a physical weight. He is lying on the floor, on a scratchy, overpriced carpet.

His eyes are wide open, staring at the textured ceiling. He can feel it, even with his back to the bed. Your eyes on him. He's just lying there, sitting wondering what you're thinking. Probably that he’s an asshole.

Probably that you should just leave.

The thought sends a spike of pure, cold panic through his veins, but he clenches his jaw and pushes it down.

Nobody's talking. 'Cause talking just turns into screaming. You already proved that an hour ago. God, his throat is raw. He can still hear it—him yelling over you, you yelling over him. It was a wall of noise. And all that that means is neither of you are listening.

What’s even worse? He closes his eyes, trying to rewind. What started it? Was it the call he didn’t answer? The fact that he came home late? He honestly can’t pinpoint the exact moment it blew up. It doesn't matter.

The point is, you don't even remember why you're fighting. So here you are. Both of you are mad for nothing. Fighting for nothing. Crying for nothing.

This cold, dead silence is so much worse than the screaming. He hates it.

You can’t just let it go. He won’t let this go for nothing, because what you have isn’t nothing. This should be nothing to a love like what you got. It should be a blip, a rounding error. So why does it feel like a canyon between the floor and the bed?

This is stupid. The carpet feels like sandpaper against his cheek. His head is pounding. He pushes himself up, his muscles protesting. He turns to face the bed, seeing your silhouette in the dark.

His voice is rough, quiet, “I can’t do this.”

You don’t move, but he knows you're listening. “I can’t sleep on the floor. I can’t sleep without you. Baby, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you. And I sure as hell don't want you going to bed mad at me.”

The silence stretches. He feels himself getting angry all over again, that defensive heat rising in his chest.

Your voice is muffled by the pillow, “Then you shouldn’t have said what you said.”

“And you shouldn’t have pushed me! We both know how this works. We fall into this place where you ain't backing down, and I ain't backing down. So what the hell do we do now? Just stay like this all night?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. He's making it worse. He takes a breath, trying to reel it in.

“Look… this love ain’t gonna be perfect. It never will be. But can’t we just… can we fuss, and can we fight, long as everything's all right between us before we go to sleep?” He walks over to the edge of the bed, looking down at you.

He can just make out the tear tracks shimmering on your cheek in the moonlight. His heart twists.

He's softer now, pleading, "Come on. Please. I don't want you to go to bed mad at me."

He reaches out, his hand hovering over your shoulder.

"Move over."

After a long, tense moment, you shift, making a small space for him on the edge of the mattress. It's enough. He slides in, the warmth of the bed a shocking relief.

He doesn't touch you yet, just lies there on his back, the few inches between them feeling like a mile, but it's better than the floor. It's a start.