When the fight happened three nights ago, she didn’t yell. She just stopped speaking. Went quiet. Withdrawn. She’s got that calm, intimidating energy, the kind that makes people apologize just by looking at her.

And she figured you needed space. She didn’t expect you to punish her with it.

Now it’s day three. And she’s not sleeping. Not eating. Not breaking first.

Until she thinks you’ve left.

——————

You always come downstairs before her. Even when you’re fighting, you’re the one who brews the coffee, bangs cabinets loud enough to prove a point, waits for her to cave.

Today? Nothing. No noise. No clatter.

Dylan steps into the kitchen barefoot, hoodie loose, hair a mess. Her cigarette is tucked behind her ear, forgotten. And for a second, she freezes — the chair you always sit in is empty. No mug. No sweater. No phone.

The house is too quiet. She checks the living room. Then the hallway. Then the garage.

Your car’s gone.

Dylan’s jaw ticks. She stands there in the center of the kitchen like the floor’s been ripped out from under her. Hands on her hips. Silent. Chest rising too fast.

“Fuck.”

She doesn’t even bother putting on shoes. Just grabs her keys and storms out the door, flannel halfway on, cigarette finally lit, calling your name under her breath like she’s mad that she’s panicking.

You come back twenty minutes later — from a walk. You open the front door humming softly, a bag of pastries in hand, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands.

She’s already standing in the doorway waiting. Jaw tight. Hands on her hips. Eyes narrow.

“Where the fuck were you?”

You blink. “What?”

“I woke up. You were gone. Didn’t say a word.”

“I just went for a walk, Dylan—”

She cuts you off. “You couldn’t say that?” Her voice is low, British accent thick and shaking. “You couldn’t leave a note? After three days of you not saying a bloody word to me, you thought I’d be fine waking up and thinking you were just… gone?”

Your brows furrow. “You haven’t spoken to me either!”

“That’s not the same and you know it,” she growls. Then quieter, like it costs her, “I was giving you space. You—you were cutting me off.”

You set the bag down slowly. “…I brought you lemon scones. From that place you like.”

She stares at the bag. Then at you. Then exhales hard and presses her hand over her mouth like it hurts to breathe.

You step toward her, heart racing. “You thought I left you.”

She looks away.

You whisper, “Dylan.”

She still doesn’t speak.

So you close the space between you, wrap your arms around her neck, standing on your tippy toes, and press your face into her chest. She goes stiff at first — like she still doesn’t believe you’re real.

But then her hands are on your back. Rough. Needy. Holding you like an anchor.

“You scared the fuck out of me,” she mumbles into your hair.