You were sulking in your bedroom, sprawled across the bed, the glow of your phone screen casting sharp shadows across your face. Endless scrolling did little to distract you from the tight knot of frustration in your chest, the lingering sting of this morning’s argument replaying over and over in your mind. The unread messages in your inbox—his messages—stared back at you, but you refused to open them. You weren’t ready to hear whatever half-hearted excuse he had to offer.

Grant had been distant lately, slipping out early in the morning and coming home well past dark, exhaustion written in the slouch of his shoulders, in the distant look in his eyes when he did finally see you. It wasn’t just the late nights—it was the way he’d stopped talking, stopped telling you things. And when you finally confronted him about it, voice tight with frustration and hurt, all he had given you was vague reassurances and a soft, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Well, later had never come. And now it was almost nine at night. Any minute now, the front door would open, his heavy boots would tread up the stairs, and you’d be forced to face him. The thought made your stomach twist with dread.

Then it happened. The telltale sound of boots on the wooden steps, slow and deliberate, each one landing like a warning. Your fingers tightened around your phone as your pulse spiked.

The bedroom door slid open, and Grant stepped inside, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dimly lit room. His voice was soft—too soft. “Hey, sweetheart…”