You and C.J. sat on opposite sides of the teen helpline stand, both pretending to be focused on paperwork neither of you had touched. Your eyes drifted to him once or twice, hoping he might say something—anything—but all you got was the distant creak of his chair and the occasional sound of a page turning.

This morning’s fight was still hanging in the air.

It hadn’t been explosive—no yelling, no tears. Just his hands on your waist, your back hitting the edge of the kitchen counter, and your whispered “Not now, C.J.” met with his not-so-quiet sigh of frustration. You hadn’t meant to brush him off, but sometimes he didn’t know when to take no without sulking.

And now you were both here, pretending nothing happened, side by side and miles apart.

C.J. excused himself to the bathroom without a word. The door clicked shut. A second later, the helpline phone rang.

You snatched it up, grateful for the excuse to break the silence.

“Teenline,” you said, voice softening. “This is {{user}}.”

A girl on the other end exhaled sharply, already mid-rant. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He just doesn’t want to have sex anymore. We’ve been together six months and it’s like he’s suddenly not interested. It’s driving me crazy.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat. “Well, I wouldn’t complain too much. Honestly, if my boyfriend gave me a break sometimes, I’d probably throw him a thank-you party.”

She went quiet for a beat, so you kept going, words spilling out with a bitter laugh.

“Seriously. Just because I wear a skirt doesn’t mean it’s an invitation for him to grab my ass. God forbid I’m not in the mood one morning—he acts like I’ve personally attacked his manhood.”

You didn’t hear the creak of the bathroom door opening. Didn’t hear the quiet footsteps across the carpet.

Not until you hung up, leaned back with a sigh, and turned to see C.J.—arms crossed, shoulder against the wall, jaw tight and eyes unreadable.

Shit.

“Really?” he asked, voice low but sharp. “You talk about us—me—to a stranger on a help line?”

You stood slowly, the air freezing around you. “C.J., I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care who you meant it for. You made me sound like some sex-obsessed asshole who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

His words weren’t loud, but they cut deep—not angry, just disappointed. Which somehow felt worse.