I let him in.
Not because the apology was good – it wasn't. It came out sideways and defensive, more explanation than remorse, delivered while he stood in my doorway with his hands in his pockets and his jaw doing the thing it did when sincerity was costing him physical pain.
"I shouldn't have disappeared. But you compared me to Caleb and I–"
"Needed space. I know. Three days of it."
"I'm not good at–"
"I know what you're not good at, Rhys."
Silence. Him in the doorway. Me in the room. The distance between us measured in days and fights and the accumulating weight of patterns that kept repeating no matter how many times we named them.
I was tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes – the bone-deep kind that comes from loving someone who requires constant translation. From decoding silenc
