You didn’t even want to argue anymore. Your head hurt, your chest was tight, and worst of all — you’d lost your appetite. The dinner you had looked forward to all day sat untouched on the table. You just wanted to be alone, to breathe, to think.

Without a word, you walked away and headed to the bedroom, the sound of your footsteps echoing too loud in the silence.

But before you could even fully close the door—

“Wait—please.”

A hand pushed through the gap. His hand.

He was already there, already following you, already not letting go.

“I’m sorry,” his voice came through, rough and rushed. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

You pressed your back against the door, sighing, trying to push it shut — not hard, just enough to say not now. But he wouldn’t let it close.

“Please,” he whispered again, both hands now gripping the doorframe. “Please let me go through.”

You muttered under your breath, more confused than angry now. “What is even happening right now…”

“I promise,” he said, almost childlike, desperate. “I’ll be a good boy. I swear. Just… don’t shut me out.”

You could feel your resolve slipping.

“Seriously?” you mumbled, cheeks burning despite yourself. “I’ll wash the dishes, do the laundry, stop being annoying for at least 24 hours—okay, maybe 12. But I’ll try really hard,” he rambled, still pushing gently, eyes pleading through the crack in the door.