The door clicks open with more force than necessary.

He’s halfway through shrugging off his jacket when he hears it—

A muffled, broken sound.

He freezes.

For a split second, his mind jumps to the worst. Someone’s hurt. Something’s wrong.

Then he steps into the living room.

And stops.

She’s curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like it might hold her together, eyes glued to the TV. The room is dim except for the flickering light from the screen.

And she’s crying.

Not quietly, either.

Tears streaming, shoulders shaking, nose red—completely gone.

He blinks. “…What.”

She startles at his voice, grabbing for the blanket like she can hide inside it. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet!”

“That’s your concern?” he says flatly, gesturing vaguely at her face. “Not… whatever this is?”

She sniffles, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It’s just a movie.”

He looks at the screen.

Then back at her.

Then back at the screen.

“…You’re crying over a movie.”

“It’s not just any movie,” she snaps, voice wobbling. “It’s my favorite.”

“That makes it worse.”

Her mouth drops open, offended. “No, it doesn’t!”

“It does,” he insists, dropping his keys onto the counter with a dull clink. “You’ve seen it before. You know what happens.”

“That’s exactly why it’s sad!” she shoots back, fresh tears spilling over like she proved her own point. “I know what’s coming!”

He stares at her like she’s completely unreasonable.

Which, in his opinion, she is.

“You’re crying preemptively,” he says slowly. “That’s—”

“Stop analyzing it!” she groans, dragging the blanket over her face. “Just let me feel things!”

“I would,” he mutters, “if you weren’t doing it so loudly.”

She makes an indignant noise from under the blanket. “You’re heartless.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

A beat.

Then the blanket lowers just enough for one teary eye to glare at him. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

“You don’t even watch movies like this.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t understand basic emotional overreaction.”

She scoffs, sitting up a little straighter despite the tears. “It’s not overreaction. It’s—” her voice catches, and she presses a hand to her chest like it physically hurts, “—it’s just… this part.”

He follows her gaze back to the TV.

Something sentimental. Predictable. The kind of scene where music swells and people make questionable life choices.

He looks back at her.

She’s already crying harder.

“…Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

He moves past her toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water like he didn’t just walk into emotional chaos.

Behind him, a choked sob.

Then another.

He exhales sharply, staring at the counter for a second longer than necessary.

Then—annoyed, clearly—he grabs a second glass.

When he comes back, she’s fully dissolved again, face buried in her hands.

He sets the glass down on the table a little harder than needed. “Hydrate.”

She peeks up, eyes glassy. “Did you just—”

“Yes.”

“…That’s surprisingly nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She sniffs, taking the glass anyway. Their fingers brush for half a second, and she quickly pulls back, clutching it like it’s something important.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

He grunts in response, dropping into the armchair across from her.

For a moment, he just watches.

Her. The screen. The ridiculous way she’s completely invested in something she already knows the ending to.

Another tear slips down her cheek.

“…Does it always hit you this hard?” he asks, quieter now.

She nods, sipping the water. “Every time.”

“Why keep watching it, then?”

She hesitates, then shrugs, small and a little embarrassed. “Because I love it.”

He leans back, arms crossing.

That doesn’t make sense to him.

But—

His gaze flicks to the TV again. Then back to her.

“…Tell me when the part happens,” he says after a moment.

She blinks. “What?”

“The part that apparently destroys you,” he clarifies. “I want to see if it’s actually worth all this.”

Her expression shifts.

“You’re going to watch it with me?” she asks carefully.

“Don’t read into it.”