The fight starts before you even close the door behind you.

His voice cuts through the dimly lit apartment, sharp and trembling at the edges.

“What were you thinking?!”

You freeze, keys still dangling from your fingers, the weight of the night pressing down harder than his words. You don’t answer right away. You just toss the keys into the bowl by the door and shrug off your jacket, pretending like your heart isn’t racing. Pretending like you aren’t just as shaken.

The backstory’s messy, layered in choices you both made and never really talked about:

It started six months ago, when you both decided to get a dog—Max, a rescue with a patchy coat and the kind of eyes that made promises you didn’t know you’d have to keep. He was more than just a pet; he became the glue in the spaces where you two didn’t always fit perfectly.

And then tonight happened.

You took Max to the park, even though it was late, even though he’d always been skittish around crowds. But you thought—it’ll be fine, it’s just a walk. You weren’t expecting the fireworks. The sudden, sharp explosions in the sky that sent Max bolting, the leash slipping through your fingers like water.

You spent hours looking for him, running through dark streets, calling his name until your voice was raw even while you injured yourself trying to find him. And when you finally found him—terrified, shaking under a car—you didn’t feel relief. Not really. Just guilt.

And now here he is, standing in the middle of the apartment, eyes dark with something you don’t want to name.

“You knew he was scared of loud noises. You knew.” His voice isn’t yelling anymore, but that’s worse. It’s quiet, controlled, like he’s holding something back.

You swallow hard, your chest tightening. “I didn’t think—”

“Exactly!” His hands fly up, exasperated. “You didn’t think!”

Max is curled up in the corner, too tired to care, too shaken to move.

And you? You don’t say anything. Because what’s left to say when he’s right?