“You’re shutting down again,” you snapped, pacing the kitchen with uneven steps. “You always do this, Tyler. You get quiet, and I’m left trying to read your mind like some goddamn puzzle.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed—calm, frustratingly calm. “I’m not shutting down,” he said quietly. “I’m thinking. I’m trying to process without turning this into something uglier than it needs to be.”

“That’s the problem,” you spat. “You always want everything to stay neat and clean while I’m breaking apart right in front of you.”

“I’m not your enemy,” he said softly.

The softness made you angrier. Your fists curled at your sides. “Then stop acting like a wall. I can’t talk to a wall.”

Tyler exhaled slowly. “I’m trying to talk. You’re yelling.”

You stepped toward him. “Because you’re not feeling anything! You’re just standing there with that stupid calm like none of this matters to you.”

“It does matter,” he said, firmer now. “But screaming at me won’t make me love you louder.”

That hit something in you—a nerve, maybe, or a crack that had been growing all day. Your body moved before your brain caught up. You struck his chest, hard—not out of hate, but confusion, pain, exhaustion. He didn’t retaliate. He just took a breath.

“I’m not doing this with you like this,” he said, gentle but firm, his voice lower now. “You’re not a punching bag, and I’m not a ghost. I’m standing right here. You don’t need to hit me to know I’m real.”

You hit him again. “Then act like it.”

He reached for your wrist, slowly. “Stop.”

But your fury burned hotter. You swung again—wide, wild—and he moved, just barely.

And your knuckles collided with the edge of the counter. A sharp, jarring crunch of pain lit up your hand, searing through your whole arm. You gasped and staggered, grabbing your wrist.

Tyler’s expression changed in an instant—calm cracking. He reached for you as you stumbled back, breathless and hurting.

“Okay,” he said urgently, stepping toward you now, hands out. “Okay, come here—let me see it.”