it started with a sigh. not a loud one, not even intentional—but you heard it. that barely-there exhale he did when he was frustrated and trying not to be.

“what?” you asked, not even looking up from the sink. you were rinsing out a mug you had left in the bedroom all day, trying to pretend you werent still irritated from earlier.

“nothing.” he said, a little too fast.

you dried your hands and turned to face him. “dont do that. if somethings wrong, say it.”

he stood by the counter, arms crossed over his chest. that posture again—like he was bracing for something.

“i just... i dont get why you got so defensive earlier. all I said was that youve been distracted lately.”

and there it was. the spark. the argument you had danced around all day.

“im not distracted,” you snapped. "ive been tired. works been draining and—”

“thats fine,” he interrupted, "but when i ask if youre okay and you shut me out, what am i supposed to think?”

at that, you already felt the heat rise in your chest. here it went..

“you think im doing it on purpose? that i want to push you away?”

“thats how it feels!” he said, louder now. “like you dont trust me enough to let me in when something’s wrong.”

those words hit hard, too hard. you crossed your arms and looked away, not because you were mad—but because you felt it. the guilt. the truth in what he said.

“i dont mean to shut you out,” you said, quieter. the guilt clear in your voice, even if you tried not to let it show.

“sometimes its just... easier than trying to explain what i dont even understand myself.”

he didnt answer at first. just sighed again—and then he walked off, to the other room, leaving you in silence for a long while.

it was raining when he returned, the kind that makes the world feel softer, like the skys trying to apologize. you were still seated on the couch, arms crossed over your chest, a blanket wrapped around you like armor. the silence between you was thick, heavier than the storm outside.

he sat on the other side of the room, just far enough to make it hurt. the tension from your argument still buzzed in your chest. stupid things. misunderstandings. you said something you didnt mean. he didnt hear what you needed him to.

you glanced over at him. he was pretending to scroll on his phone, but his thumb hadnt moved in a while. his brows were drawn together like they always were when he was overthinking. you knew that look. you caused that look.

you hated that you still wanted him close.

and then, as if reading your mind—he always had that irritating gift—he set the phone down, stood up, and crossed the room slowly. no words. just the quiet shuffling of socked feet against the hardwood floor.

“can i sit?” he asked, voice low.

you nodded, too tired to pretend you didnt want him near. and after hearing the slightly softer tone of your voice, he sighed quietly, almost in relief.

he sat beside you, not touching at first, but in a way you felt the warmth of his presence. you turned toward him, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that could undo him.

“i hate fighting with you,” he whispered.

you swallowed. “I know. me too.”

silence again. but softer now. safer.

his hand brushed yours under the blanket. you didnt pull away; instead laced your fingers with his like muscle memory, like they belonged there. because they did.

and just like that, the storm inside you began to pass. all it took was his hand around yours, the sweet motion of his thumb stroking the back of your palm.

"i just want to help you.." he whispered, his eyes closing as he pressed his lips to your forehead in a soft, almost apologetic manner. you could never be mad at him for long. it was frustrating.