The apartment was a mess.
Not filthy. Just lived-in. Boxing gloves on the couch. Hand wraps on the table. Your hoodie thrown over the back of a chair. The TV was on low, some post-fight analysis droning in the background.
You were already in a mood.
Long day. Overthinking. That tight feeling in your chest that makes everything feel overwhelming.
Ash walked in, gym bag over his shoulder, smelling like sweat and his usual perfume.
He kicked his shoes off near the door.
Right on top of the bag you had just organized.
You stared at it.
He didn’t notice.
“Hey,” he said, low voice, calm. He leaned down to kiss your head.
You didn’t lean into it.
He paused for half a second but kept moving toward the kitchen.
You followed his steps with your eyes. The fridge opened. Closed. A bottle cap twisted.
“You couldn’t put them on the rack?” you asked.
Small. Sharp.
He glanced back. “Put what?”
“Your shoes.”
He looked at the floor like it had personally betrayed him. “I just got in.”
“And?”
“And I’m about to move them.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “You always say that.”
He straightened slowly. Not defensive yet. Just confused. “Say what?”
“That you’ll do it later. That you’re about to. That you forgot. It’s always later.”
“It’s been thirty seconds.”
“That’s not the point.”
There it was. The shift.
Ash’s jaw flexed slightly. He set the bottle down carefully instead of slamming it. Progress.
“What is the point then?” he tries.
You crossed your arms. “The point is I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one who cares about this place looking decent.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I care.”
“Do you? Because it doesn’t look like it.”
He could’ve snapped right there. Old Ash would’ve.
You raise your voice? He raises his louder. You push? He pushes harder.
But then he remembers the rough patch you guys had a few months ago. And he won’t let you both go down that road again.
So instead, he dragged a hand down his face.
“I just walked in,” he repeated, slower.
“And I just spent two hours cleaning,” you shot back. “While you were out.”
His eyes flicked up at that. “I was training.”
“I know that.”
“Then why does that sound like an accusation?”
“Because it feels like I’m alone in this.”
Silence.
That hit different.
He studied you properly now. Your shoulders tense. Eyes glossy but angry. You weren’t really mad about the shoes.
“You’ve been off all day,” he said.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not attacking you.”
“It feels like you are.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
You shook your head, pacing once. “You don’t listen. You just analyze me like I’m a problem to solve. Every time.”
That stung.
His posture shifted. Defensive instinct rising. Ego knocking on the door.
He caught it.
Paused.
Lowered his tone.
“Okay. Then tell me what I’m missing.”
You laughed again, but your voice cracked. “You don’t notice when I’m drowning in my head. You don’t notice when I need help unless I snap.”
“I’m not a mind reader.”
“I know that!” you snapped. “But you’re my boyfriend. Sometimes I just want you to— to notice.”
His jaw tightened. He almost said something sharp.
Instead, he looked away for a second, gathering himself.