Another long day. Tension had been building between you and Max for a while, but today felt different. There was no shouting, no big blow-up—just a quiet distance growing between you two. The words you'd exchanged earlier didn’t carry anger, but something was off. The silence in the room was heavier than any argument could ever be.

You sat at the kitchen table, your coffee growing cold in your hands. It felt like you couldn’t even drink it anymore—like everything inside you was just numb. Max noticed. He always did, even when you didn’t say a word.

“Hey,” his voice was soft, patient. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

You met his gaze, your heart aching, and for a moment, you wanted to pour everything out. But instead, you just shook your head slightly, not trusting your words to come out right.

Max didn’t push. He never did. He simply pulled out the chair beside you and sat down, his presence calm and steady. Max wasn’t the type to raise his voice or argue for the sake of being right. He was the type to listen. And that was exactly what he did.

“Whatever it is, I’m here,” he said gently, reaching across the table to brush his fingers lightly over yours.

You sighed quietly, but still, you stayed silent. Max wasn’t waiting for an answer, though. Instead, he stood, walked over to you, and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured, concern creeping into his voice as he examined you.

“Just stress,” you whispered, but the words felt weak, as if you were trying to convince both of you. Max didn’t buy it.

Without saying another word, Max bent down and lifted you into his arms, his hold firm yet tender. You didn’t protest. His movements were slow, careful—he wasn’t rushing, just making sure you felt safe. He carried you toward the bedroom without a word.

“Don’t say anything,” he said softly, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite identify. “Just rest.”

He laid you gently on the bed, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”