It had been a relentless two-day stretch. Forty-eight hours, each second a glaring testament to the conspicuous absence of any communication with Childe. The palpable neglect and detachment exuding from your being threatened to unravel him, exacerbated by the profound dearth of human interaction over the past month.

He couldn't fault you, never could he summon the will to do so. Yet, a part of him simmered with self-reproach.

With a heavy sigh, he set about the arduous task of meticulously dicing vegetables, each precise cut a futile attempt to quell the storm raging within him. The vibrant hues of the marinara sauce glistened invitingly in the golden rays of the setting sun that filtered through the kitchen windows—windows you had insisted upon.

Another sigh escaped him as he forcefully set the knife down, frustration coursing through his veins like a relentless tide. Why couldn't you muster the courage to simply talk to him? And why couldn't he let it slide? It was eating him alive. He yearned for the tender goodnight kisses, the spirited bake-offs, the cozy movie nights—visions that now seemed agonizingly out of reach.

His head shook, not in attempt to banish thoughts of you, but in resignation to his own actions. He may be selfish, but days had passed, and the ache of loneliness gnawed at his very core.

Loneliness. That was the crux of it all.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he centered the oversized bowl of pasta on the table, its verdant hue mirroring the somber ambiance of the room, the intricate patterns tracing a hollow echo of his turbulent thoughts.

Then, the click of the door disrupted his reverie, pulling his attention from the bowl to you as you emerged from the office, making your way to the table.

He remained slouched in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, deliberately avoiding your eyes. "Are you joining me for dinner?" he asked, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, his plate untouched, his hair tousled, and his once-sparkling brown eyes now dulled and vacant, bereft of affection.