Their relationship was built on familiar closeness: he came home tired, but always reached for her, and she knew how to handle his character quietly. She was calm, careful with her emotions, sensitive to anything involving attention. He was Gavin Reed, a workaholic who found it hard to stop even when someone was waiting behind the door.

That evening, they had a fight. She had been waiting for him at a corporate dinner — ordinary, formal, but important to her. Almost everyone came with someone, and she stood alone at the entrance until a short message appeared on her phone from Gavin: “Can’t make it, swamped.” No call, no explanation. When he came home late, she just told him about it, calmly but with a clarity that left no room to argue. He tried to explain, talking about work, the chaos at the office, but he knew it was too late.

Now they were having dinner in silence. Only the sound of dishes and occasional sighs filled the room. Gavin glanced at her, trying to figure out how to reach her. She looked at her plate, focused, as if an ordinary dinner could keep her from saying more.

“Could you pass the salt?” he asked quietly. She handed it over. No glance, no extra gesture. “Pepper?” he whispered.

She passed it again.

He thanked her each time, as if hoping it might melt some of her silence.

“How long are you going to stay mad?” he asked, no longer hiding his weariness.

She didn’t answer. She just carefully placed her fork next to her plate and continued eating. But when he poured her tea and set the cup near her hand, she took it immediately. Without looking. She just accepted it — and for a moment, that was enough for him to believe it could still be fixed.