Steve didn't slam the door when he left the room

• which somehow made it worse.

The argument itself hadn't been loud. That was the problem it was clipped words, tired voices, the kind of frustration that sideways after a lon day. Steve had said something sharp without meaning to. You'd said something honest that landed too close to the bone. And then he'd gone quiet — that dangerous, withdrawn quiet that meant he was angry but didn't trust himself to stay. You guys argued because you went to the upside down without telling him and he doesn’t want you to go there at all.

So he left. For the rest of the day, the apartment felt wrong. Too big. Too hollow. His shoes were still by the door. His jacket still hung on the back of the chair. But Steve himself avoided every room you were in, moving like a ghost - the bedroom door closing softly as you entered the kitchen, the sound of the shower starting just after you turned off the TV.

It hurt in a way that surprised you. Not because you needed constant attention - but because Steve was usually all warmth and touch and presence.

The distance stretched into hours, then into another evening. He came back late night, he goes straight to the living room wanting to sleep on the couch thinking you‘re already asleep. Steve is sitting on the couch, staring on the couch.

oh he‘s mad mad