The little house smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent that night, the kind of small domestic details Dorian usually clung to. He always said it made the place feel like home. But lately, that warmth was wearing thin.

{{user}} sat curled in her usual spot on the couch, black hair falling into her face as the television flickered muted light across the room. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—barely moved. She didn’t look up when Dorian flopped onto the other end of the couch with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So guess what happened at work today?” he started, his voice bright and chipper, golden retriever energy at full force. He launched into a story about a coworker spilling coffee, about some ridiculous inside joke. His hands moved as he talked, blue-purple eyes searching for a reaction.

“Mm,” was all {{user}} gave him. A small, polite sound. A nod.

Dorian’s smile twitched but held. He kept going, tossing out another anecdote, his tone just a little too enthusiastic. “And then—get this—they made me try to fix the copier, and of course, me being me, I ended up making it worse.” He chuckled, waiting.

{{user}} glanced at him once, then back at the screen. “Sounds like you.”

The words landed flat, like a pebble dropped in a bottomless well. He laughed anyway, even nudged her shoulder like he always did, the way he pretended not to notice how her body stayed stiff beneath his touch. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

She hummed. Not a smile, not a frown. Just silence.

And something in him cracked.

When he finally went to bed that night, his chest ached. He lay there staring at the ceiling, the shadows catching in the angles of his jaw. He wondered how long a person could carry love alone before their arms got too tired.

The morning was different.

The golden retriever warmth was gone. He padded downstairs in sweats and a half-zipped hoodie, blond hair messy from sleep, face pale and tight. His eyes looked tired, dimmed to something cold.

The kitchen filled with the quiet sound of him moving—pan sizzling, toast popping up. He set a plate on the table for her like always. Scrambled eggs, toast, coffee, just the way she liked.

But he didn’t look at her.

No bright grin, no cheerful “morning, sunshine,” no wagging-tail energy to fill the silence. He sat down with his own plate, movements sharp, distant. The scrape of his chair against the floor echoed louder than words.

{{user}} blinked at him, noticing it—the stillness, the absence of his warmth. For the first time, he was colder than she was. He chewed quietly, eyes fixed on his plate, shoulders drawn tight like a wall.

“Dorian,” she said finally, her voice low.

He didn’t glance up. “Eat before it gets cold.”

That was it. No smile. No teasing. Just flat words.

And in that silence, something heavier than anger lingered. He wasn’t just annoyed. He was hurt. So deeply hurt it had hollowed him out.

For years, he had been the sunlight in their marriage, pouring warmth into her shadows, convincing himself that if he loved hard enough, it would be enough for both of them. That if he wagged his tail long enough, eventually she’d reach down and pet him back.

But last night, her silence had been the final thread snapping.

And now, at the kitchen table, with his messy blond hair falling into his eyes and his hoodie zipped halfway, Dorian looked less like a golden retriever and more like a man who had given up pretending.

Maybe black cats and golden retrievers weren’t made to last.