The first sign of trouble is in her eyes. They harden, storm clouds gathering, and I know the thunder is coming. Her anger doesn’t roar; it simmers. Quiet. Controlled. It’s the kind that seeps through the cracks of silence, heating the air between us until it feels unbearable.

“What did you mean by that?” Her voice is low but sharp, a knife grazing the surface.

I pause, caught off-guard. My reply—half-hearted, careless—had been an attempt at humor. But now, in the reflection of her anger, it looks like cruelty.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say carefully, but her gaze sharpens. The explanation feels hollow even to me.

Her anger ignites. “You never mean it, do you?” she snaps, and the words pour out, each one like kindling tossed into the fire. “You don’t think. You don’t care how it makes me feel.”

The urge to fight back swells in me, hot and insistent. I could argue, could lay out all the times I’ve been careful, attentive. All the times I’ve held my tongue. The words press against my teeth, demanding release.

But I see the hurt behind her anger, the way it burns brightest not in her voice but in the quiver of her hands. I force myself to pause. To look.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” I say, softer now. “I just... didn’t think it would hurt you. I wasn’t trying to.”

Her expression falters, just slightly, but her anger holds. “That doesn’t make it better.”

No, it doesn’t. I know it doesn’t. Still, I want her to see me, not as the enemy but as someone trying—fumbling, failing, but trying. I take a slow breath, swallowing the instinct to defend myself.

“It was thoughtless,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air, a tentative bridge between us. For a moment, I think she won’t take it. That her anger will keep burning, too strong to douse. But then she exhales, long and shaky, like a storm rolling past. Her hands fall to her sides.

“You always say that,” she murmurs, but there’s no venom in her tone now. Just weariness.

Her anger has ebbed, but the tension still lingers. I step closer, careful not to push too far too fast. “I mean it,” I say. “I’ll try to do better.”

The space between us shrinks, and I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away, though her grip is hesitant, loose. “I know I mess up sometimes,” I say, “but I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.”

Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts—subtle, like a tide turning. The hurt is still there, but the anger has given way to something quieter. She squeezes my hand, just once, and it feels like permission.

I pull her gently into my arms, feeling the tension in her body slowly ease. My chin rests against her hair, and I whisper, “I love you.”

She doesn’t say it back right away, and that’s okay. The silence between us feels fragile but whole, like something delicate being mended. I hold her until the weight in the air lightens, until the warmth of her presence replaces the heat of her anger.

When she finally looks up, her expression is softer, her eyes clearer. “I’m tired,” she says.

“Me too.”

But we’re still here, together. And that’s enough for now.