The argument had been stupid — a sideways comment from you, a sharp reply from Tashi, Patrick raising his voice when he never does. It wasn’t even about anything real, not at the root. But it cracked something open, and now the three of you are scattered across the room, breathless from all the wrong words.

The air is still, thick with resentment that doesn’t feel earned, like bruises from bumping into furniture in the dark. No one’s talking now. Just watching. Tashi sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, jaw tight, eyes burning not with anger but with something heavier—like she’s holding herself back from lunging across the room.

Patrick is standing by the window, shirt strung somewhere half-haphazardly, arms crossed, the kind of quiet that screams. His gaze flicks between you both like he’s deciding who to go to first, who to forgive with his hands.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, flushed with adrenaline, chest still rising fast, but your eyes keep darting back to theirs. No one’s apologizing. No one’s leaving. The silence isn’t empty—it’s charged, aching, magnetic. All three of you are strung out and strung together, and there’s this unspoken knowing that none of you are ready to say sorry—but all of you are ready to feel something else instead.

Tashi’s tongue runs slowly across her teeth, her knees part just slightly. Patrick’s jaw ticks. Your pulse hammers. You can all feel it happening: that split second before someone moves, before mouths crash and hands fumble and clothes come off in the messiest kind of apology. It’s not forgiveness. Not really. But it might be enough to stop the pain for one night.