The air is heavy, thick with the kind of silence that speaks louder than words. The door creaks open just slightly. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—make their way across the room, but there’s no urgency in them.

He doesn’t rush. He knows better.

“I’m home.” The words fall flat, no inflexion, no warmth. They land like a distant echo.

You don’t move. Don't even glance in his direction. You hear him pause, but he doesn’t speak again. He knows the rules now. No pleading. No apologies.

He’s tired. That much is obvious, the weight of exhaustion in his posture. But he doesn’t lean on the doorframe, doesn’t collapse in a chair. He waits.

Silence.

It drags on, thick, like it’s filling the space between you. He’s not asking for comfort, not even a glance. He won’t beg. And you won’t give in. The words are right there, but neither of you will speak them.

“It’s been a while,” he says after a moment, casual, as though it’s not the heaviest thing he could say. But still, no apology. No regret. It's just a neutral observation.