When the song ended, she wiped her eyes and reached for the door handle.
I stopped her—not roughly, not forcefully—just enough to keep the moment from slipping away.
Her reaction was immediate. She turned toward me, anger flashing through her expression, the same reflex she carried everywhere. But before she could speak, I stepped in gently, my voice low, steady.
“I know you’re not in a good place right now,” I said. “I heard the songs you chose. I asked you to play them so I could understand how you’re feeling—not to trap you in it.”
She stilled.
“I need us to talk,” I continued. “You matter to me more than I’ve let myself show. And I’m confused, Thumper. Something changed after the last time we were together, and I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Her anger softened into something raw
