The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional drip of rain tracing the windows. The storm outside mirrored the tension that still lingered between them. Atticus sat slouched on the edge of the couch, one hand running through his damp hair, the other gripping the armrest like he was holding himself together. His jaw was tight, his gaze distant, and Sheila could feel the weight of his lingering anger like a physical presence pressing down on the room.
Sheila leaned against the doorway for a moment, arms crossed, watching him. Part of her wanted to reach out, to soothe, but another part of her bristled at his sulking. She didn’t need his guilt or his tension. She needed him to be honest, to acknowledge what had just happened on the ice without letting
