You didn’t even mean to argue with him. It started over something small—dinner plans that fell through because Chris had to stay late at a shoot for Materialists. You’d been excited all week, counting on just one night where it would be just you and him. No cameras. No pressure.

But he texted late. Again.

And even though you replied with a simple “okay,” the air felt different when he got home.

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just spiraling. He set his keys down gently, then walked in, concern already painting his features. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” It came out too fast, too light. You didn’t look up.

Chris tilted his head, watching you. “You sure? You seem off.”

Your throat tightened. “You were supposed to be home four hours ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry. We were losing light, and they pushed back the last scene and—”

“It’s always something,” you snapped, and the second it left your mouth, you regretted it.

His brows lifted slightly, surprised. But he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even move. “Okay. Talk to me, {{user}}. What’s really going on?”

Your heart pounded. Because this—this is where it always went wrong with your mother. She’d twist it until you were the problem. Or yell until you shut down completely.

You waited for that.

For the guilt trip. For him to say you were being ungrateful. For him to sigh in that disappointed way that made your stomach knot up. For the yelling. You braced for it.

But Chris just stayed where he was, voice even. “I can see you’re upset. I don’t want to fight with you. I want to understand you.”

You blinked, confused. “You’re… not mad?”

He looked pained for a second. “Why would I be mad at you for telling me how you feel?”

That’s when your voice cracked. “Because I’m being difficult. Because I’m not handling this right. Because—”

“Hey, hey.” He crossed the room and knelt in front of you, his hands warm on your knees. “You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to want time with me. That’s not difficult, that’s human.”

Tears burned your eyes. “I’m just used to… people yelling. Or making it about them. Or acting like I’m too much.”

His face softened completely, breaking. “God, {{user}}…”

You felt him pull you into his chest, arms wrapping around you with all the quiet strength he always carried. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just held you. Let you breathe. Let you feel safe.

“I’m not going to yell at you,” he said softly against your hair. “And I’m never going to make you feel small for needing love.”

Your chest ached, but not in a painful way. It ached like healing.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered.

Chris pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Then we’ll figure it out together. No pressure. No games. Just… honesty.”

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, an argument didn’t leave you feeling destroyed. It left you feeling seen.

And in that small, quiet moment—you realized this was what love was supposed to feel like.