The house is dark except for the lamp in the corner. Will sits on the couch, one hand pressed against his jaw, the other holding his phone. The screen lights his face as he scrolls aimlessly, but the set of his shoulders tells you what you already know: he’s been waiting.
You drop your bag near the door, toeing off your shoes as quietly as you can. But the floor creaks anyway, and Will looks up. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the frustration there.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low but edged.
You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. “We caught a break on the case. I couldn’t just—”
“Couldn’t just call?” His voice rises, sharp in the quiet. “Five minutes, cher. That’s all it takes to say you’re alive. Do you know how many times I sat here wonderin’ if…” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard.
You drop onto the armchair opposite him, exhaustion pulling at your bones. “Don’t do that, Will. Don’t act like you’re the only one who worries. How many times have you come home hours late? Or not at all until morning? I’ve sat on this same couch waiting for you, scared sick. So don’t put this all on me.”
His jaw clenches. “The difference is, when I do it, I hate myself for it. I don’t come in here actin’ like it’s just part of the job.”
Your chest tightens, anger rising with your guilt. “You think I don’t hate it too? You think I like choosing between the case and my family? You think I don’t feel sick when I miss dinner, or bedtime, or—” Your voice breaks, and you press your hands against your face for a moment before dropping them again. “God, Will, I can’t win. Not at work, not at home.”
The silence that follows is heavy, brittle.
Finally, Will leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’re both so busy fightin’ monsters out there, we don’t notice the damage we’re doin’ in here.”
The words cut sharper than either of you expect.
You stare at him, throat tight. Part of you wants to argue, to push back, but you don’t. Because deep down, you know he’s right.
So instead, you look away, blinking fast as the silence stretches until it feels like another wall between you.
For once, neither of you rushes to patch it.
--
The morning light filters weakly through the curtains, pale and unforgiving. You’re at the kitchen counter nursing a cup of coffee that’s already gone cold. The boys chatter at the table, their voices filling the air with the kind of chaos that usually warms you. But today, it feels muffled, like you’re behind glass.
Will moves around the kitchen, quiet and efficient. He sets a plate of eggs on the table for the kids, refills their juice glasses, wipes up a spill, all without once looking at you.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
“Thanks, Dad!” Henry chirps, and Will ruffles his hair, smiling faintly. That smile disappears the second his gaze flickers your way. He doesn’t say a word, just grabs his own mug and stands by the sink, staring out the window like it holds all the answers.
You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around your mug. Last night’s words replay in your head, jagged and raw. Maybe we’re both so busy fightin’ monsters out there, we don’t notice the damage we’re doin’ in here.
The boys don’t notice, too caught up in arguing about who gets the last piece of toast. But you notice. Every second. Every space between you and him that wasn’t there before.
You clear your throat. “I’ll take the boys.”
Will finally glances your way, his eyes unreadable. “Already told ‘em I’d do it.” His tone is calm, polite even, but it cuts deeper than anger.
You nod slowly, pushing back from the counter. “Right. Of course.”
--
The house is quiet. The boys are in bed, but you can still hear the echo of their laughter in your chest. Will sits on the couch, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the floor.
You approach slowly, holding your mug like a shield, but it’s useless - he sees you anyway.