The door creaked open just as the evening shadows stretched long across the floorboards. His heavy footsteps echoed in the silence of the house, dragging a chill of the outside world with them. Tartaglia lingered in the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He didn’t speak right away, as though the weight of the argument still clung to him. His eyes flicked toward you briefly before darting away, unable to hold your gaze for more than a second.

He then exhaled sharply, closing the door behind him with more restraint this time, but the sound still carried. For a moment, he just stood there, the faint scent of frost and city air clinging to him, a reminder of the hours he spent away.

“…I’m back,” he finally mutterd, his voice low and rough, a far cry from the usual warmth he wore around you. There was hesitation in the way he lingered near the entrance, as if he was not sure whether to step closer or give you space.

The silence between you stretched taut, the memory of slammed doors and bitter words still alive in the air.