It had been a week since the fight—since Theodore had walked away. But, as always, it didn’t last.

He found you in the courtyard, sitting alone under the shade of a tree. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand clenching at his side before he finally stepped closer.

“You’re hard to stay mad at, you know that?” he said softly, standing a few feet away. His voice held none of its usual sharpness, just a quiet vulnerability that was rare for him.

When you looked up at him, his green eyes searched yours, unsure but determined. “I can’t take it anymore,” he admitted, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “I hate this distance between us.”

He waited, his shoulders tense, as though bracing for what you might say—or not say. “Say something,” he murmured, almost a plea.