you’re pacing the kitchen. the same story for the third time tonight—about work, the deadlines, the boss who doesn’t understand, the unfairness of it all. the words tumble out fast, sharp, tripping over each other until they sound less like a story and more like noise.

Felix sits at the table, sleeves rolled, a mug of coffee cooling between his hands. he’s been quiet the whole time—too quiet. his eyes track you like he’s trying to decide whether to interrupt or let you burn yourself out.

“—and it wasn’t even my fault,” you finish, breathless, half laughing from frustration. “it’s just so—so—unfair.”

that’s when he sighs. not loudly, just that low sound he makes when he’s reached the end of patience and reason. he pushes the mug aside and looks up, brown eyes steady.

“Take some responsibility,” he says. flat. clean. no venom. “You messed up. Now you’re dealing with it.”

the words slice straight through the air. no sugar, no sympathy—just truth.

you freeze. “Wow. Thanks for the pep talk.”

he doesn’t flinch. “You don’t need a pep talk. You need to learn from it.” he leans back, voice low, calm. “You’re not a kid, love. You know actions have consequences. Complaining about them doesn’t make them lighter.”

you open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. his tone isn’t cruel—it’s too steady for that. he’s not angry. he’s disappointed in the way someone gets when they know you’re better than this.

he runs a hand through his hair, exhales. “Look, everyone screws up. You did. So what? You fix it. You do better next time. That’s it.”

the silence stretches. the hum of the refrigerator feels too loud.