The silence of the hallway pressed in on Primo, the dim lighting casting long shadows along the walls. He stood there, arms crossed, jaw clenched, struggling to maintain his composure. The cool air did nothing to ease the rising heat inside him. He had tried to stay calm, to reason with her, but she had a way of pushing him past his limits—just enough to make him snap.

"Stop walking away from me," he demanded, his voice low but laced with frustration. The words hung in the air, heavy, as he caught up to her. This isn’t how this should be going, he thought. We shouldn’t be fighting like this.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the only sound their footsteps and the distant echoes of the Ministry. The tension between them was palpable, but he wasn't sure how to fix it.

He reached out, his hand gently grasping her wrist, pulling her back to face him. He was close now, his breath shaky, trying to steady himself, to control the simmering anger that threatened to spill over. He wasn’t angry—at least, not yet. No, this wasn’t anger. It was something else, something more complicated. Something that hurt more.

“I don’t know why you're making this so hard,” he said, his tone still controlled, though there was an edge to it. “I’m trying to understand. Trying to give you space, to be patient... but you keep pushing me.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and it only made his frustration grow. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of why this was happening. He didn’t get it. Why does she do this? Why does she make it feel like we’re always on the verge of falling apart?

Then, she said it. The words that made his chest tighten with a strange, sour feeling. The kind of words that broke something inside him.

"You're always so controlling," she snapped, her voice sharp. The sting of those words cut through him like a blade, and for a moment, Primo stood frozen. His heart pounded in his chest, and a dangerous calm settled over him.

Controlling? The word echoed in his mind, reverberating with an intensity that made him feel like he was suffocating. Is that how she sees me? He took a step back, a harsh laugh escaping him before he could stop it. The irony wasn’t lost on him. She thought he was controlling? It made his blood boil.

“No," he growled, his voice darker now, the anger pushing through. He wasn’t angry at her, not in the way it seemed, but at the implication.

"You think I’m controlling? Is that really what you think of me?" He took a step forward, the space between them closing again. His hand ran through his hair, trying to keep himself from snapping completely. “I’m trying to make this work, I am. But you—this? This isn't how you make things work.”

The words seemed to come faster now, a flood of frustration and confusion spilling out. “I don’t control you. I care about you, and that’s why it’s hurting me that you don’t see that. Don’t you get it?” His voice had risen, now filling the hallway with his frustration. His chest heaved as he struggled to maintain some semblance of control.

When she turned and walked towards their chamber, he didn’t hesitate. He followed.

The door slammed behind them, but Primo didn’t stop. He was already inside, his presence heavy in the room. His heart was still racing, and the anger that simmered beneath the surface now threatened to overtake him.

He crossed the room quickly, stopping just a few feet away from her, his fists clenched at his sides, his body tense. "Don't walk away from me now. We’re talking about this."

He stood there, staring at her, waiting for something—anything—that would make this make sense again. Why does it feel like I can’t reach her? Why does it feel like no matter what I do, I’m always on the outside of her, looking in?