A late-summer storm mumbled against the windows of his apartment, turning the view of the parking lot into a smeared watercolor of gray and asphalt black. On the TV, some superhero movie John had only half-chosen played out its climactic battle, the CGI explosions a silent, colorful flicker against the glass. He’d turned the sound down an hour ago when the silence from your end of the couch had become a tangible, heavy thing.

You were curled into the corner of his secondhand sectional, a blanket pulled up to your chin despite the humid warmth. All day, you’d been a quiet ghost moving through his spaces. Your usual sunshine chatter, the silly commentary during breakfast, the way you’d usually fiddle with his beard while he read reports on his tablet—gone. Replaced by a polite, distant chill. It was a chill that had seeped into his own bones, making him feel clumsy and too large for his own living room.

He’d made your favorite takeout: the garlic noodles from the place on 7th. You’d picked at it, a smile so brittle he thought it might shatter if he breathed too hard. He’d run through a mental checklist: Was it an anniversary he’d forgotten? No. Something he’d said? He’d replayed the last two days like a security tape, finding nothing. The anxiety was a low-grade hum in his veins, familiar but misdirected. He was used to worrying about aliens, about fucked-up ops, about Harcourt’s disapproval. This was definitely worse.

“Baby,” he finally said, his voice rough from disuse. He paused the movie, plunging the room into a silence broken only by the rain’s soft percussion. “C’mon. Talk to me. You’ve been… you’ve been ice all day. Did I do something?”

You didn’t look at him. Your gaze was fixed on the blank, black TV screen, as if you could still see the movie there. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. It undid him. John felt his stomach drop to his knees at the sight.

He shifted closer, the old couch creaking under his weight. He didn’t touch you, afraid you’d flinch. “Hey. C’mon, sweetheart. Please.”

You took a shuddering breath that seemed to fracture your whole frame. When you spoke, your voice was tiny, waterlogged. “Are you cheating on me?”

John blinked behind his glasses. He actually took them off, cleaned them on his t-shirt, and put them back on, as if a clearer view would make the question make sense. It didn’t.

“What?” The word came out flat, utterly devoid of intelligence. His brain sputtered. Cheating? Him? The same guy whose most thrilling recent purchase had been a specialized beard trimmer, who considered a successful weekend one where he got to nap with you on this couch, who still sometimes looked at you across a room and felt a jolt of how the hell did this happen?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎