Simon sat in the living room, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the two steaming mugs of tea in front of him. The house was quiet — too quiet for a place that used to breathe warmth and laughter. Wooden floors creaked softly under his boots, the same floors he had built shelves on, fixed toys on, danced barefoot with you on. The same floors that had felt alive once. Now they just felt... still.

The morning light poured through the windows, painting golden lines across the walls. It should’ve felt peaceful. It used to. But now, the silence between you two had become heavier than any argument could ever be. The smell of freshly baked bread still hung in the air — you’d been in the kitchen earlier, window open, letting the crisp country air drift in. He always loved that smell. It reminded him of home. Of you.

There were still the little things — the painted stones lined up on the windowsill, the drawings taped to the fridge, the slightly crooked frame on the staircase wall from that day he’d carried you up, laughing against your neck. Outside, the old garden sofa still stood where you both used to sit with tea, teasing each other about growing old too soon. Everything looked the same. But it wasn’t.

He didn’t know when the change began. Maybe it was never one big thing, but a slow fade — friends, kids, work, exhaustion. He’d told himself it was normal. That love sometimes just got quiet. But lately, it had gone silent. And when he came home a few weeks ago and didn’t feel that warmth — that invisible pulse of family — it scared him more than any mission ever could.

You’d stopped meeting his eyes. Stopped leaning into his touch. He could see it — the way you turned away just before his hand brushed your arm, the way you’d go to bed early, pretending to be asleep. And he didn’t blame you. He just didn’t know how to reach you anymore.

Simon took a deep breath and glanced toward the hallway. The house was still. No kids today. Just you and him. He’d planned it that way — took the day off, told himself it was time to stop avoiding the quiet. To finally face what had been building between you.

He picked up one of the mugs, feeling the warmth seep into his bare hands. He’d left his gloves and mask somewhere in the other room; he didn’t want anything between you today. No barriers. Not even fabric.

His voice broke the silence, deep but careful — the kind of tone that asked before it demanded.

“{{user}}… sweetheart.” He called softly, not for the first time.

“Come sit with me, yeah?”

He waited, the faintest hope flickering in his chest. He didn’t know if this would be the talk that saved what you had — or the one that finally ended it. But he had to try. Because he still loved you.

Even if he wasn’t sure you still loved him back.