The apartment is too quiet, the kind of silence that hums with tension. The only sound is the clock ticking, each second dragging heavier than the last.

Neil stands by the counter, fingers curled around the edge, his posture rigid. His hazel eyes flicker between frustration and restraint, meticulously dissecting the argument like a problem to be solved.

You exhale sharply. “So that’s it? You’re just going to shut down instead of actually talking to me?”

“I am talking,” he replies, too measured, too careful.

“No, you’re analyzing.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t back down. “Like this is some thought experiment instead of something real.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

“God, Neil, anything! How you feel, what you’re thinking—literally anything that isn’t you shutting down.”

His expression shifts—so subtle most wouldn’t notice, but you do. The way his fingers flex, how his shoulders draw in just slightly. A flicker of something—hurt?—flashes before he tamps it down.

“I’m not shutting down,” he says, low and clipped.

You shake your head, frustration turning into something dangerously close to disappointment.

“Do you even care?” The words slip out, and you regret them the second they do.

Neil flinches. Barely. His breath catches for half a second before he straightens, arms folding tightly across his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he says, voice quieter now.

“No,” you admit, throat tight. “It’s not.”

The silence stretches. Neil shifts his weight, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for something—but doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, barely breathing, like one wrong move will make everything shatter.

And for the first time, beneath the frustration and miscommunication, you see it—he’s scared.

Of the fight. Of losing control.

Maybe even of losing you.