Some mornings carry a warning in the silence—a subtle, weighty stillness that presses into your ribs before your mind even catches up. You know it before the alarm goes off. Before your feet hit the cold floor. A heaviness that clings to the edge of everything. Today will not be kind.

The coffee machine coughs out a dry grind, its reservoir empty. No beans. No reprieve. You settle for tea—too hot, too bitter, burning the roof of your mouth until your tongue curls back from it in protest, numbed and tender. It’ll sting for days. You mutter a curse and swallow it anyway, because you don’t have time. You never do.

Halfway to work, the realization hits like a slap—your wallet, left behind on the counter in your rush. You double back, teeth grinding in time with the ticking clock. Now you’re late. Now the whole day is spiraling. And in the office, beneath fluorescent lights that feel too harsh for your tired eyes, someone smirks and points out a dark little stain near the hem of your shirt—oil or sauce or something that had no business being there, a final jab to a frayed spirit.

By the time you pull into the driveway, all you want is to retreat. Just a quiet evening, a soft shirt, loose trousers, the comfort of a warm meal you didn’t have to cook and a couch that won’t ask anything of you. The house is dark. Still. You cling to the hope.

Until you open the front door.

There, in the middle of the hallway like an offering to the gods of frustration: his boots. Caked in dried mud, reeking faintly of damp earth and cold sweat. You step around them, your jaw already tight. The smell leads you to the laundry room, and that’s where the final straw waits—his uniform, still damp with sweat, bundled carelessly on the floor. Shirts in a pile, socks half-rolled, a sharp tang clinging to every thread. On top of it all, a note in his familiar hand:

Had to run back to base, love. Can you handle this? You’re a star.

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

You don’t yell, not yet. But the heat’s rising, slowly, steadily, like water to a boil. When the front door opens again, hours later, and you hear his heavy footfalls, the snap of cold air following him in, it’s already too late.

“You could’ve cleaned your boots,” you say without turning around. Your voice is level, too level. “Or run the washer. Or left it for tomorrow instead of dumping it all on me.”

“I didn’t exactly have time,” he replies, tone rough but even. He pulls off his gloves one finger at a time. “Didn’t plan on getting called back in.”

“You never plan. That’s the problem,” you snap. “You just expect me to keep the place from falling apart while you disappear.”

His eyes flash—just for a second. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is coming home to this mess after the day I’ve had.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he says, jaw clenched. “Don’t make me the villain because you had a bad day.”

“Don’t leave me to clean up your life like it’s my job!“

The silence that follows is worse than the argument. He stands there, still as stone, and you leave before your tears can catch up with your words. You lock yourself in your small study, curling into your chair like it’s armor, surrounded by half-finished work and the soft buzz of your desk lamp. You try to focus, try to breathe. The numbers blur. The words don’t stick. Hours pass.

The house quiets. The anger doesn’t.

Then—his voice. Low. Gravel-worn. Right outside the door.

“You’ve had your space. I get it. I do. But you know the rule.”

You say nothing.

“I don’t sleep without you. Not after a fight. Not ever.” A beat of silence. “So you can come to bed, or I’ll drag my pillow down here and sleep on this bloody floor. But either way—we’re not ending the day like strangers.”

You close your eyes. He means it. You can hear it in the weariness under his voice, in the soft gravity of it—like he’s holding out a hand without needing to say so. It’s not quite an apology. Not yet. But it’s John. Stubborn. Stupid. Yours.