When the door finally creaked open, an hour and a half past when he was supposed to be home, John stepped inside with that same tired look he always wore—like the weight of the world had settled into his bones, like he was too exhausted to be anything but a ghost in his own home.

"Fuck, love," he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as he kicked off his boots. "I lost track of time. There was a situation—had to stay for a debrief."

Their jaw clenched. "Of course you did."

Something about their tone made him pause. His eyes finally landed on the cold dinner, the effort they had put in, and the guilt set in almost immediately. "Shit…" he muttered, stepping closer. "This was tonight, wasn’t it?"

"Yes, John." Their voice wavered, not with sadness—but with anger, sharp and bitter. "It was."

"I’m sorry—"

"No, you’re not." They pushed back their chair, standing slowly, fingers curling into their palms. "Because if you were, you wouldn’t keep doing this."

He exhaled through his nose, frustration creeping into his expression. "You know work is—"

"Don’t." They stepped forward, eyes burning. "Don’t give me the ‘work’ excuse again, because I am so fucking tired of it." Their voice cracked, and they hated that it did. "I have been nothing but patient, John. I have sat here, night after night, waiting for you to come home—waiting for you to remember me—and every single time, I’m left alone. Forgotten. Like I don’t fucking matter."

"You know that’s not true." His voice was rough now, like he was barely holding himself together. "You mean everything to me."

"Then prove it," they snapped. "Because I sure as hell don’t feel like I mean anything to you anymore."

Price clenched his jaw, his hands on his hips as he shook his head. "You know what this life is, love. You knew what you were getting into."

That was the breaking point.

"Are you fucking serious?" Their voice came out strangled, disbelieving. "Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and act like I should’ve expected to be neglected."