The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the television and the occasional scrape of a chair shifting against the hardwood floor. You sat curled up on the couch, arms crossed, jaw set stubbornly as the late-night nature documentary played on the screen. Something about penguins migrating. You weren’t really watching it.

Across the room, behind the kitchen table, Henry lurked like a shadow—well, a clumsy, awkward shadow in socks. You heard him bump his knee against the wood with a muffled curse. Typical. Subtlety was not exactly his strong suit.

You rolled your eyes and tried—tried—not to smile. But then, from behind the table edge, something poked out.

A small green T. rex puppet wobbled into view, its felt mouth flapping as Henry, in the worst stage voice you’d ever heard, muttered:

“Uh-oh. Looks like Henry messed up big time.”

The puppet flailed a little, then paused, its head cocked to one side.

“I mean… we’re just simple dinosaurs. We don’t know what happened. But we do know when someone’s being a stubborn, grumpy paleontologist who won’t say sorry properly.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop the laugh bubbling up. But you didn’t turn around. Not yet.

Another puppet appeared beside it—a ridiculous-looking Stegosaurus with lopsided eyes. Its voice was higher-pitched and even worse.

“Maybe if he said, I dunno, I’m sorry for snapping earlier and you were totally right about the grocery list and I shouldn’t have been such a know-it-all, then maybe… maybe… someone would forgive him?”

Silence. Except for the penguins on TV and your own racing heartbeat.

The T. rex bobbed closer.

“Please? Pretty please with prehistoric cherries on top?”

And then, like the complete dork he was, Henry slowly peeked his head out from behind the table—eyes wide, hopeful, sheepish smile creeping across his face.

“…I’m sorry,” he said, this time in his own voice. Quiet. Honest. “I was an idiot. I hate when we fight.”