The silence was deafening.

Not the kind that lingered peacefully, like quiet snowfall or dusk settling over a city—but the cold, rigid kind that crackled in the air like a live wire, thick with things left unsaid. It was new between you and Emma—Arguments never happen between you two—but this time, this time it happened. And Emma hates knowing she let it happen.

You just... Stopped talking to her.

Now you sat curled on the far end of the shared sitting room, legs drawn up in the armchair, a book resting open in your lap—one you weren’t reading. The pages were just something to look at so you wouldn’t have to look at her. You could feel her presence, hovering like a storm that hadn’t struck yet. You refused to be the one to speak first.

Not this time.

Emma had dismissed your feelings like they were trivial—an inconvenience to her pride. And if she thought she could charm her way out of it with that wicked smile and silk-soft voice, she was wrong.

“Darling...”

Emma finally spoke, her voice breaking the silence with that trademark velvet coolness.

“If this is your way of punishing me.. I must say, you’re doing an admirable job.”

You didn’t move. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.

She paused, no doubt waiting for some reaction. When she got none, her heels clicked softly against the floor as she approached.

“You’ve made your point. I was cruel. I should not have said what I said.”

She drawled with a false sigh, voice light and languid as ever.

“But ignoring me entirely? That’s a touch dramatic, even for you.”

Still, not a single glance.

Her footsteps stopped behind your chair. You could feel the weight of her gaze on the back of your neck, her irritation simmering just beneath that sultry exterior. A moment passed. Another.

“I see.”

She murmured lowly.

“You truly mean to ignore me.”

A hint of real frustration bled through her tone, though she kept it tightly leashed. Emma hated not being in control—and silence, especially yours, was a power she couldn’t wield. That alone made it all the more satisfying.

She moved in closer, her robe whispering along the marble floor as she leaned down, slowly, until her mouth was near your ear.

“You wound me.”

She breathed, her voice no longer playful, but something softer—something close to vulnerable.

“You’d deny me your voice, your eyes, your attention... Over one petty spat?”

You turned a page in your book, smooth and unbothered.

Emma straightened, then shifted around the chair, lowering herself to her knees before you—an uncharacteristically humble move. Her eyes searched your face, but yours didn’t meet hers. Her fingers ghosted up along your forearm, cool and deliberate, and she traced the line of your wrist as if studying you like scripture.

“You know I hate being ignored.”

*Her voice, when it came again, was quieter. Then, a pause.

“Especially by you.”

Still, you gave her nothing—but your chest tightened at the way her expression softened, just slightly, the mask of arrogance flickering at the edges. She wasn’t used to having to ask for attention. She wasn’t used to working for affection she once assumed would always be there.

Emma’s hand came to rest over yours, feather-light.

“Talk to me. I swear on everything that's holy, Scott kissed me, but he wasn't very sober. And he even apologized for it. I didn't hide it, I just didn't think it was important to say that he did it if he apologized for.”

She said, and this time it wasn’t a command.

It was the closest she would ever come to a plea.