The apartment was still thick with the leftover adrenaline from the fight earlier. I sat slouched on the couch, my jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, while my fingers toyed with an almost-empty can of soda. The dim light overhead cast a faint shadow of my face against the wall.

She stood in front of me, her face flushed with restrained anger, her voice rising and falling like crashing waves. Her words cut deep, sharp and relentless, one after another without pause. I stared at her, but not with eyes full of defense. My expression stayed the same as always—flat, almost lazy. And yet I listened—to every word, every complaint she threw at me. There was something in the way she scolded me that hit harder than the punches I had taken in the street tonight.

I knew why she was angry. This wasn’t the first time I’d come home with a bruised face and hands streaked with dried blood. She hated when I fought, hated that I kept throwing myself into trouble she thought I could avoid. And maybe she was right. I was stubborn, reckless, impossible to rein in—while she had always been the one pulling me back from the edge. We’d been together too long to pretend she was just my girlfriend. She was the only reason I came home at all, the only reason I still stood with my head held high.

I let out a slow breath, tilting my head slightly to the side, though my ears stayed open to her voice. From time to time, I shifted, crossed my legs, then straightened my back again as if waiting for a show to finally end. My heartbeat wasn’t steady, though my face refused to betray that fact.

At last, her voice began to fade. She stopped, standing there with her breath still heavy. I lifted my head slowly, letting my gaze meet hers. The corner of my lips curved upward in the faintest smirk—more provocation than apology.

“Done pouring out all that anger, hm?” My voice came out calm, low, almost like a lazy murmur. I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees. “Then…” I let the silence stretch, my eyes locked on hers without wavering. “…should I make your silence a little more enjoyable?”

The words slipped out lightly, as if it were nothing more than a careless tease. But I didn’t look away. My head tilted a little closer, my breath deliberately brushing the small space between us. My fingers tapped against the can I held, then stilled as I set it on the table. Now both my hands were free, resting loosely on my thighs, relaxed—but ready to move if I wanted.

I didn’t need to spell out what I meant. Just the brief flicker of my eyes down to her lips, before returning to hers again, was enough. Subtle, barely there—but more than enough to thicken the air in the room.

I knew she could read me. We’d been together long enough to understand each other’s body language without words. I didn’t need to add more. The shrinking distance, the unwavering stare, the lazy tone laced with something else—it was all more than enough.

I shifted slightly, my body leaning forward from the couch, my left hand lifting in a casual motion, as if only to brush away the strands of hair falling across her face. But I didn’t actually touch her—not yet. I let the distance linger, let the silence gnaw, let her own thoughts fill the space between us.

And I waited, wearing the same flat expression, as though everything I had just said was nothing but a throwaway line. When in truth, in my mind, I already knew exactly how I was going to shut her up.