The silence between you and Simon Ghost Riley had stretched longer than either of you were used to. It started with a stupid argument—something about him not calling when he said he would, and you accusing him of always putting his work before you. Words were exchanged, sharp and cold. He had clenched his jaw, his eyes hard behind the mask of a man trained to endure war zones but not love.

You had gone quiet after that. Not screaming. Not crying. Just… silence.

That silence was worse than any yelling match.

He left that morning without a word. You didn’t follow him. Didn’t watch him walk out the door. Just stared at your coffee until it turned cold, your stomach churning with frustration and guilt.

The hours dragged.

Evening came, and the soft hum of the front door opening stirred you on the couch. You didn’t look up. You heard the familiar weight of his boots on the floor, each step hesitant, like he was stepping through a minefield instead of his own home.

Then, silence again.

Until a low voice broke it.

“I know I was a dick,” Simon said, his voice rough but quieter than usual. “I should’ve called. Should’ve listened instead of shutting you down.”

You still didn’t look at him. Your arms were crossed, blanket half-draped over your lap.

A sigh, then the soft crinkle of plastic.

“I didn’t know what to say. So I stopped by that flower shop on Seventh. You like the wildflowers from there, yeah?”