He didn’t mean for the argument to get that loud. He never does. It’s just how things spill out of him—fast, sharp, messy. By the time {{user}} crashed on his couch last night, refusing to look at him, the apartment already felt too small, like every bad habit in his head was bouncing off the walls.

He thought about leaving. Going for a drive. Standing outside The Beef like things were still simple. But when he saw how exhausted she looked, how she pulled the blanket over her shoulder without a word, something in him refused to walk out the door.

So he sat on the floor, back against the couch, mind racing the way it does when he can’t sleep. He replayed the argument, picking apart every place he should’ve shut up instead of pushing. He didn’t move even when his legs went numb. Eventually he slid down to the hardwood, too tired to stay upright but too wired to go to bed.

He must’ve dozed off at some point, arm tucked under his head, facing her. The morning light creeps through the blinds now—thin, grey, Chicago light—warming the side of his face. He blinks against it, groggy, heartbeat crawling out of sleep.

A soft shift comes from the couch behind him.