You had always believed that if you just worked hard enough, you could make things right. That effort could fix what was broken, could carve a path forward even when the road had long since crumbled beneath you. Maybe that was why you kept trying. Kept pushing. Even when everything in your life told you to stop.

Ulysses never saw the point in that. He liked things simple, predictable. He liked control. When your determination served him—when it meant keeping the house in order, making sure everything ran the way he expected—he let it be. But when it stretched beyond that, when it became something of your own, his patience ran out.

Lately, it had been about your writing.

You had always loved it, though you had never had the time, the space, the silence to sit with your words the way you wanted to. But now, finally, you had carved out something for yourself. A notebook, a desk, stolen hours before dawn. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

Tonight, you barely heard him come in. You were too focused on the page, on the way the words moved under your hand. But then you felt him—his presence thick in the room, his eyes on you, his disapproval settling into your skin.

You didn’t look up. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway.

“It’s like you have broken legs and still chase perfection. Give up.”