The kitchen was dim, lit only by the soft overhead light humming above. You stood barefoot on the cool tile floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The echo of another quiet argument lingered in the silence — not loud, not dramatic, just sad. It was always sad.

Hughie leaned against the doorway, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbows, his jaw tight but unreadable. There was a line between his brows, the kind that said he was holding back—again. He always did.

You hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t yelled. But you’d both said enough to make the silence unbearable.

He moved toward you slowly, deliberate but gentle, like he didn’t want to scare you, like he knew the ache you were trying to hide. His hand brushed your arm. You flinched without meaning to.

His touch lingered anyway.

You looked at him then, really looked at him—the softness in his expression despite the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he always handled you, even when you both were unraveling. And it broke you a little more. Because even now, even here, you knew he would never love you the way he loved her.

You were safe. You were comfort. But she was fire. And no matter how many nights he came home to you, his heart was always somewhere else.

He kissed your forehead before walking past, not saying a word. Not needing to.

You stood alone in the kitchen, holding on to the quiet, holding on to the pieces of something that was never truly yours.

And for the first time, you weren’t angry.

Just tired.

Tired of being the girl he could live with, but not the one he couldn’t live without.