You were still mad—at least, you told yourself you were. The silence between you had stretched into minutes, thick and suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the motel’s aging air conditioner rattling in the corner.

The dim, jaundiced glow from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the dingy carpet, outlining Sam’s crouched form in warm, hesitant light.

He hadn’t said a word since he knelt in front of you. His large hands—strong, sure, but now trembling slightly—rested on your thighs, warm through the thin fabric of your jeans.

You kept your arms crossed, your jaw tight, your gaze locked on the peeling wallpaper across the room. You wouldn’t look at him. Not yet.

Because if you looked at him, you’d see the regret. And if you saw the regret, you’d forgive him. And you didn’t want to forgive him yet.

Not after the way he’d snapped at you earlier.

It had started innocently enough—you’d touched his shoulder, leaned over his shoulder to peer at the laptop screen, and softly reminded him, “Sam, you’ve been at this for five hours. You need to eat. You need to breathe.”

And he’d flinched like you’d burned him.

“Not now,” he’d barked, slamming the laptop shut. “I’m this close, okay? I can feel it—I’m onto something. Just… just let me work.”

You’d stepped back, stung. “I’m not stopping you. I’m just worried about you.”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” he’d shot back, voice low but sharp, like a blade wrapped in velvet. “I’m not some damsel who needs saving.”

That one had cut deep. You weren’t trying to save him. You were trying to care for him.

So you’d snapped back, “Fine. Work yourself into a hospital bed. See if I care.”

And then you’d retreated to the couch, curled into yourself, while Sam paced the room, muttered to himself, and eventually slumped back into the chair—silent, brooding, but still refusing to stop typing.

The fight hadn’t escalated. It didn’t need to. Some fights didn’t need shouting. Some fights lived in the quiet spaces—the distance between two people who loved each other but couldn’t quite remember how to say it.

Until now.

Now, he was here. In front of you. On his knees. The kind that only someone who’d spent a lifetime guarding his heart could make.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

He shifted, his thumbs pressing gently into your thighs. “Please.”

Still nothing.

A long pause. Then, softer: “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your throat tightened.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “You were just trying to help. And I… I pushed you away. Again.”