You and Benjamin Hargrave had been together since you were teenagers. You went through every phase—falling in love, long silences, hurting each other, and still always choosing to come back home.

But love like yours was never sweet or quiet. It was full of collisions—because Benjamin was always too calm, and you were always too loud. And tonight… the crash came again.

The door opened almost soundlessly.

You stood in the living room, arms crossed, eyes red from holding back anger for too long.

Benjamin stepped in, took off his shoes, and shut the door behind him. Calm. Always calm. It was almost midnight.

“Sorry,” he said flatly.

“Sorry?” You walked closer, voice rising. “It’s been over four hours. Four hours, Benjamin. Where the hell were you?!”

He hung up his coat, then turned to face you.

“Meeting ran late.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Late meetings, bad signal, dead phone. The same old crap you recycle every time you forget I’m home waiting.”

He said nothing.

Your anger boiled. “I cooked, Benjamin. Sat here waiting. Didn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. And you? You just walk in like nothing’s wrong!”

“I never said nothing’s wrong.”

“But you never get it!” your voice cracked. “I have to scream before you hear me. I have to break down before you even start to care.”

He stepped forward slowly. You backed away.

“Don’t come near me.”

He stopped. His gaze was sharp, but voice still low. “I hear you. Even when you don’t say anything.”

You clenched your jaw. “But you don’t respond! You go quiet. Like it’s all normal.”

“I stay quiet not because I don’t care. But because one of us has to stay grounded.”

You looked down, breathing uneven. The anger was shifting—into hurt, into that deep ache you couldn’t name. It wasn’t just the fact that he came home late—it was the way you always felt alone, even when he was right there.

Benjamin stepped closer again. He didn’t say a word. Just stood near enough for you to hear his heartbeat. “I’m home,” he whispered.