The door shuts harder than it needs to.

You’re already awake when Forrest stumbles in, smelling like whiskey and cold night air, coat half-off, antlers brushing the frame. It’s not even the time that hurts anymore—it’s the fact that he doesn’t look sorry.

“Again?” you say. Your voice is tight. “You said you’d be home.”

He shrugs, loose and careless, like it’s nothing. “Had a few drinks. Lost track of time. You’re making it bigger than it is.”

That’s when it snaps. Words spill—about broken promises, about how tired you are of waiting, of worrying. He listens with his arms crossed, jaw set, until you finally go quiet, chest aching.

For a moment, the room is heavy.

Then Forrest exhales, slow. A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Alright,” he says, turning toward the bedroom. “If you’ll just stop talking… I’ll fix it.”

You hear drawers open. Fabric rustle.

He comes back wearing the ridiculous red Santa mankini, bells low on his hips, confidence like armor. He spreads his arms as if this settles everything. “See? Truce.”

It’s infuriating. It’s familiar. And the worst part is how your anger falters—not gone, just buried under the same old pull.

Forrest doesn’t apologize. He never does.

He just waits, daring you to stay quiet—and stay.