Simon stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. The room felt too small, like the walls were closing in with every breath you took. “You’re doing it again,” you said quietly. He didn’t turn. “Doing what?” “Shutting me out.” A bitter huff left him. “I’m standing right here.” “No,” your voice cracked slightly, “you’re physically here. That’s not the same thing.” That got him to turn. His eyes met yours—stormy, guarded, tired. Always tired. “You think this is easy for me?” he snapped. “Trying not to mess this up again?” “Then stop acting like you don’t care!” “I do care!” His voice rose, echoing against the walls. “That’s the problem!” Silence hit hard after that. Your chest tightened. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for this?” Simon ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “Because every time we argue, it feels like we’re one step away from ending again.” You swallowed. “Maybe because we are.” That stopped him cold.