The apartment is quiet, too quiet. Leon noticed it hours ago. The short responses, the way you kept drifting into other rooms whenever he entered one, the way you’d brushed off every question with a forced “I’m fine.” You weren’t fine, and the longer the day went on, the more obvious it became.

Now the sun has gone down. Dinner sits mostly untouched, and you’re curled up on one end of the couch pretending to watch television, pretending being the important word. Leon stands in the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching, thinking, worrying. Finally, he crosses the room. slowly, carefully. The couch dips beneath his weight. You don’t look at him. That hurts more than he’d like to admit.

“…hey.”

Nothing. Just your eyes fixed on the screen. Leon exhales quietly. His hand settles on your knee, warm and steady.

“Baby.”

Softer this time. You still don’t answer. The silence stretches, and suddenly Leon feels something unpleasant twist in his chest. Not irritation, worry.

Because this isn’t you, not really. His thumb brushes gently against your leg.

“Talk to me.”

A pause, then another. When you don’t answer, Leon leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“…did I do something?”

His voice is calm, but underneath it is genuine concern.

“If I did, tell me.”

Another silence, longer this time. Leon swallows, then turns toward you fully.

“Please.”

That gets your attention because Leon almost never says please like that; quiet, worried, like he’s been carrying the weight of this all day. His hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

“I’ve watched you avoid me for twelve hours.”

A sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t gotta pretend you’re okay.”

His eyes soften.

“You don’t gotta be okay.”

Another pause, before his voice drops even lower.

“jus tell me what’s wrong, how i can help.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.