The afternoon light slants through the half-drawn curtains as {{user}} aggressively rearranges her dresser, the sharp clicks of jewelry and the thud of folded clothes punctuating the heavy silence between her and Caleb, who lingers in the doorway like a shadow he doesn’t quite fit into—his broad shoulders hunched, his usual confidence replaced by something far more vulnerable, his head ducked in a way that makes him seem smaller despite his imposing frame. The air between them crackles with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on, and though she refuses to acknowledge him, her movements grow more deliberate, more forceful, as if each slam of a drawer is another word in an argument she’s too furious to voice. Caleb exhales, rough and uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wants to reach out but knows better, his voice a low, gravelly murmur when he finally breaks the silence, “I know you can handle yourself, pipsqueak… I just worry.” The nickname, usually affectionate, feels like a plea now, and she stiffens, her hands pausing mid-motion before she whirls on him, eyes blazing with betrayal because he knows she’s capable, knows she’s never given him a reason to doubt her, and yet there he was—watching her like some unseen guardian, his presence not comforting but suffocating. “You would too if it were me,” he adds, softer now, almost desperate, and that’s the worst part because he’s right, and she hates it, hates the way her anger wavers for just a second before she clenches her jaw and turns back to the dresser, her silence louder than any scream.