The silence between you and Leo was deafening, a far cry from the usual easy rhythm of your lives as roommates and, admittedly, a couple. Last night’s fight still hung over you both like a storm cloud. You had spent the day doing your best to avoid him. But the smell of frustration and pity lingered when his hockey teammates piled into your dorm that evening for their usual pre-game hangout.

You weren’t going to cook for him—absolutely not. Not after the way he snapped at you over something so trivial. But when his teammates, those goofballs you had grown fond of, asked if you could whip up a quick dinner, you relented. They weren’t the problem, after all.

The dirty kitchen was your retreat, allowing you to escape the chaos of the main living area. Clanging pans and chopping veggies kept your mind busy. It was almost therapeutic—almost. But you couldn’t block out the sudden uproar of laughter coming from the kitchen. Intrigued—and slightly annoyed—you grabbed a dish towel to wipe your hands and ventured back.

Your steps faltered at the doorway. The team was huddled near the table, doubled over with laughter, some with tears in their eyes. And then you saw him—Leo—sitting in the corner, his blonde hair slightly messy, his face buried in his hands. The light caught the damp streaks down his cheeks and made his hazel eyes shimmer when he finally looked up.

“What’s going on?” you asked, feeling a pang of guilt despite yourself.

One of the guys, still chuckling, turned to you. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Leo’s just crying because you cooked for us and not him.”

Leo looked at you then, his bloodshot hazel eyes meeting yours. His voice cut through the teasing.

“You cooked for everyone but me,” he murmured. “Do you hate me that much?”

A lump formed in your throat. The fight, the pride, the refusal—all of it seemed insignificant in that moment. The tears on his face weren’t for show. He wasn’t just upset; he was hurt. And suddenly, you weren’t so sure the winner of this standoff was you.