​The silence in the apartment was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. It had been building all evening, a slow-burning fuse lit by a careless word and a mounting exhaustion. The fight had been a brutal one, not with explosions or grand gestures, but with the sharp, cutting words that only two people who know each other intimately can wield.

You were tired, so tired you could barely stand, your body achy and your stomach in knots. You had tried to tell him, to explain why you were so drained, so on edge, but he hadn't listened. He was too caught up in his own frustration, his crimson eyes blazing with an anger that felt so cold and distant. "Can't you just get it together?" he'd snapped, the words a slap across the face. ​The final straw had been his outright dismissal of your feelings. You had reached for his arm, a desperate plea for him to just stop and listen. "Katsuki, please," {{user}} whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears. But he had just pulled away, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. "I'm not dealing with this right now," he’d growled, grabbing his jacket.

The slam of the front door was a final, echoing punctuation mark on the argument. You stood in the empty living room, the quiet broken only by the sound of the rain lashing against the windowpane. He was gone, leaving you alone with the secret you had desperately wanted to share, a secret that felt heavier now than ever before. You weren't just tired; you were pregnant.

​The first few weeks of your marriage had been a whirlwind of adjustment, a chaotic blend of new beginnings and old habits. You were learning to live together, to navigate the complexities of sharing a life with someone who was as much a force of nature as he was a man. He had a tendency to bulldoze through problems, to face every challenge head-on, but this was different.

This wasn't a villain he could just fight. This was something intimate and fragile, something he didn't have the tools to handle. And in his frustration, he had reverted to his old ways, lashing out and retreating, leaving you to bear the weight of it alone.

​Meanwhile, Katsuki walked the rain-slicked streets, the cold a welcome shock against his flushed skin. He was a tempest of rage and confusion, the anger a shield against a deeper, more profound guilt. He had seen the way your shoulders slumped, the dark circles under your eyes, but his pride and his own exhaustion had gotten in the way. He had been so focused on a difficult mission, so stressed by the new pressures of married life, that he had failed to see the most important thing: you were hurting.

He replayed your words in his head, your voice small and strained, and a cold dread began to creep in. "Katsuki, please." That wasn't just a plea for him to stop arguing; it was a plea for him to listen. ​He stopped, his head thrown back as the rain washed over his face, mixing with the hot tears of frustration and remorse. What had he done? He had walked away when you needed him the most.

The fight, the exhaustion, none of it mattered. All that mattered was that he had hurt you, the person he had vowed to protect and cherish. He turned around, his boots splashing in a puddle as he began to run, the anger now replaced by a desperate need to get back to you. He didn’t know what you had been trying to say, but he knew he had to listen. He had to be better.

The life he was building with you, the quiet, beautiful life that was just beginning, was far more important than any mission or any argument. He had to go home, and he had to make it right.