The silence in the kitchen was heavier than any of the gear Frankie had ever hauled through the Andes. It was the kind of silence that rang in your ears, thick with the residue of the words you’d just hurled at him. Frankie didn’t storm out. He didn’t yell. He just stood by the counter, his hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white stones.

For the last month, you’d been picking at each other like it was a sport, the groceries, the bills, the way he forgot to call, the way you breathed. But just now, you’d gone for the throat. You’d brought up the pills. You’d taken the hardest, cleanest year of his life and used it as a punchline for why he was being "difficult."

He looked up, and for the first time since you’d met him, the "Catfish" swagger was gone. There was no pilot’s grin, no tactical calm. He just looked exhausted.

"I’m doing the work," he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "Every single morning, I wake up and I choose not to go back to that basement. I thought you were the one person who knew how much that cost me."

He finally let go of the counter and took a slow, steady breath, looking at you not with anger, but with a clinical sort of distance.

"We’re bleeding out," he continued, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "We fight over the air we’re breathing lately, and I can’t... I can’t have my sobriety be part of the collateral damage. If I lose that, I lose everything. And right now, being in this house, with you looking at me like I’m still that guy? It’s making me want to be that guy just to numb the noise."

He walked toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook. He didn't pack a bag; he just needed out.

"I need a break. Not a 'walk around the block' break. I need space from all of this. From the fighting, from the resentment... and from you. I need to go somewhere where the air isn't so heavy so I can remember why I’m staying clean in the first place."