The argument with Matt had been tense, emotions still raw like smouldering embers. It had happened the day before—a clash of words neither of you had intended but somehow couldn’t avoid. You knew it was time to step back, give him the space he needed to breathe, even if your own heart ached with the weight of things left unsaid.

The things he had said stung, yes, but the love you carried for him refused to be silenced. Walking away without trying to mend the gap wasn’t an option—not when every fibre of you wanted to bridge it.

That evening, you had spent hours preparing his favourite meal. It wasn’t just food; it was a piece of yourself, a quiet plea for reconciliation. You chopped, stirred, and seasoned with care, imagining the hint of relief on his face when he saw it. It wasn’t grand or flashy—just a small gesture to say, I’m here. I still care. We can fix this.

When you finally set the plate down in front of him, your hand hesitated at the edge of the table, ready to retreat, giving him the space he might need.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out. His hand brushed against your wrist, a light, almost hesitant grip, stopping you in place. Not a grab, not a forceful pull—just enough to tether you, to let you know he wasn’t ready to let go either.

“{{user}}…” His voice was low, almost trembling, carrying the weight of exhaustion and vulnerability. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

You swallowed, trying to steady the lump in your throat.

He looked down at your wrist, then back up into your eyes, and for a moment, the tension in the room softened, replaced by something fragile but real. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Scared that we’ll just hurt each other again.”