The TV flicked on with a soft hum. A random documentary about deep sea fish played, the volume low. Simon lay back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, the other resting loosely on his stomach. His chest rose and fell, skin still flushed from the aftermath — but his face was calm. Stoic, like nothing had happened. Like they hadn't just clawed at each other like two people trying to win. Maria lay on her side, facing away from him, knees curled slightly toward her chest. The sheet was tugged high, wrapped around her like armor, her arm folded over it to keep it there - like she needed it. Neither of them spoke at first. Riley huffed from the foot of the bed and flopped dramatically across both of their ankles, dead weight over the covers. Simon clicked his tongue. ...Why the bloody hell did we put the TV so far?" His voice cut through the silence like it wasn't heavy between them — like they hadn't fought like hell this morning. Like they hadn't just used each other to say the things they didn't have the words for.