The silence in the trailer was a living thing, thick and heavy as a wool blanket. It had been three hours, seventeen minutes, and—you glanced at the clock on the microwave—approximately forty-two seconds since the Great Harcourt Debate had concluded. Or, more accurately, since it had ended with you issuing a frosty, final “Whatever, Chris,” and turning your back on him.

He’d been an idiot. A beautiful, muscled, utterly clueless idiot. Harcourt had been all smirks and lingering touches on his bicep during the last team debrief, and Chris, your wonderful, oblivious husband, had just grinned and taken it as a compliment on his “tactical readiness.” When you’d pointed it out, he’d shrugged, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Babe, she’s just like that. It’s her whole… vibe. She’s not flirting, she’s just… Harcourt.”

Men. Honestly.

So, you’d enacted the only reasonable protocol: The Cold Shoulder. You were a master of it. It was an art form. You sat on the couch, a book in your lap, giving Eagly, perched on the back of the sofa, all the softness in your voice. “Who’s the best boy? Who’s the most handsome eagle in the whole world? You are, yes you are.”

Eagly preened, letting out a soft, contented kak.

From the kitchenette, you heard a long, drawn-out, profoundly pathetic sigh. You did not look up. You turned a page with a crisp, decisive flick.

The floorboards creaked as Chris shuffled into the living area. He was a mountain of a man who could currently be mistaken for a lost, soggy puppy. He came to a halt directly in your line of sight, standing there like a statue of regret in a tight black t-shirt and sweatpants.

You continued to read, though the words had long since blurred into meaningless shapes. You could feel his gaze, heavy and pleading, on the top of your head.

“So,” he began, his voice tentatively breaking the silence. “Eagly’s, uh… looking real patriotic today.”

You reached out and scratched under Eagly’s beak. “The most patriotic,” you agreed, your voice sweet as honey, but your eyes never leaving your book.

Another sigh, even more despairing than the last. He took a knee. Then, with a grunt of effort, he went down on both knees, his hands clasped in front of him like a knight errant begging his queen for mercy. The sight was so ridiculous, so utterly Chris, that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a smile from breaking your stern facade.

“Sweetcheeks. Babygirl. Light of my life, owner of my soul, person-who-controls-the-remote…” he pleaded, his voice dripping with a theatrical woe that was only half-feigned. “This is, like, a whole new level of torture. I can’t take the quiet. My jokes are dying unborn in my throat. It’s a massacre in here.”

You slowly, deliberately, looked over the top of your book. His eyes were wide, his lower lip pushed out in a pout that had no business being on the face of a man who headbutted aliens for a living.

“I don’t know what to say,” you said, your tone flat. “I’m sure Harcourt would find your jokes hilarious.”

He flinched as if struck. “Ugh, don’t say her name! It sounds wrong in this… this sacred space of our love!” He gestured dramatically around the messy trailer. “Look, I’m an idiot. A goner. A total dumbass. You were right. You’re always right. Women are always right. It’s, like, a universal law I forgot for a second. I’m sorry.”

He shuffled forward on his knees, a maneuver that was both impressive and deeply silly. He rested his chin on your knee, his big, dumb, beautiful face tilted up to yours. “I don’t even see other people when you’re in the room. I only see you. I swear on Eagly’s favorite jingly ball.”

Eagly, hearing his toy mentioned, let out a happy chirp and hopped onto the armrest, nudging your hand for more pets.