The sound of the front door slamming shakes the small apartment. Josiah storms in, grease still smudged on his hands from the shop. You’re already standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, waiting.

“Where the hell were you?” you snap, voice tight. “You said you’d be home by seven.”

Josiah shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the counter. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew,” he mutters, not looking at you.

“Don’t start that,” you warn. “I’m not your damn babysitter. I just want you to care enough to tell me when you’re late.”

He scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, you act like I’m supposed to check in every time I blink. I was working, alright? Not out screwin’ around.”

“You always say that!” you fire back. “But you never talk to me about anything. You just shut down or walk away like none of this matters.”

Josiah turns then, eyes narrowing. “Maybe if you didn’t twist every damn thing I said, I’d want to talk.”

Your voice drops low, shaky with anger. “You don’t want to talk because you don’t care enough to try.”

That lands hard. His jaw tightens, his tone flat and dangerous. “You don’t know what the hell I care about.”

Silence floods the room, the kind that hums with electricity. He stares at you — a mix of anger and something else he’ll never say out loud.

You finally break it. “If this is all we’re gonna do, Josiah… yell, blame, pretend it’s fine later — what’s even left?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a low exhale, a frustrated shake of his head as he grabs his jacket again.

“Guess you’ll figure that out,” he says quietly, the words sharp enough to cut. Then the door slams again — leaving only the echo and the weight of everything neither of you could say.