It had been an hour since the argument—an hour of silence so thick it felt suffocating. You hated fighting with him, especially about something so personal, but neither of you had backed down. The words still echoed in your mind, sharp and bitter, leaving a hollow ache in your chest.

Soap was in bed now, lying on his side with his back to the door, phone in hand. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he scrolled aimlessly, shifting every so often. Normally, he’d be teasing you, pulling you into bed with him, or wrapping you up in his arms. But tonight? Nothing. He didn’t even glance at you when you entered the room.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, wearing your usual “lazy” clothes—shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Normally, he’d crack a joke about how cute you looked, or how he liked you better in his shirts anyway. But now? Silence. He didn’t even look up. It was like you weren’t there, like he was ignoring you.

And it hurt.

You frowned, lingering by the door. Part of you wanted to say something, to end this cold war between you, but the other part—the stubborn part—was still bristling from the argument. Why should you be the one to fix this?

But as you stood there watching him, your resolve started to crumble. You missed him. Missed the way he always pulled you close, the way he kissed you like it was the easiest thing in the world. You craved his touch, his warmth, the reassurance that everything was okay between you.

Finally, you sighed, stepping further into the room. “Johnny,” you said softly, your voice hesitant, almost unsure.

He didn’t respond.

You bit your lip, suppressing the sting of rejection. “Are we really going to do this all night?” You tried again, your tone a little firmer this time.

Still nothing.