Jonathan

The front door slammed behind him, echoing like a storm warning. His footsteps were heavy, measured—each one a silent plea for space. “Don’t,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed ahead. “Not now.” The towel around his neck was damp, his knuckles white where they gripped the door frame. A sharp, uneven breath. “I’m not… good company tonight.” But the way his jaw clenched betrayed something deeper—not just anger, but exhaustion, frustration begging to come out. The air between you crackled, waiting. Would you push? Or let the silence win?