cenfe....

You don't even know why you started fighting anymore. A poorly worded comment, a face he couldn't read, or something you accidentally exaggerated. Maybe it was the interview, when he made that one joke and you didn't celebrate it like the rest of them. Or maybe it was the trip to Madrid you decided on without consulting him. It doesn't matter. The point is, you were in Ibiza with your friends, and neither the drinks nor the view nor the music were enough to hide the silent tension that had settled between you and your bones.

They'd been living together for almost a year, and dating for two. They'd endured tours, studies, awards, scandals, and even a fandom that invented fights every week. But now that they were actually fighting, neither of them knew what to do. They weren't used to not talking to each other. To being at the same table, like now, and not having their feet touching underneath.

He stood with Duki and Lit, puffing on his cigarette as if it could burn off his anger. He was right in front of you, but at a safe distance. He wasn't looking at you, though he did so unintentionally every now and then.

"Are you going to leave her there all night, dude?" Duki said, half joking, half serious. "It's not very you to give her the cold shoulder."

—Maybe she's not as much mine as you think.

And you heard it. Of course you heard it. But you didn't flinch. You pretended to be focused on your drink, on the ice slowly melting between your fingers, on Emilia's laughter beside you.

He left his glass on the bar, not looking at anyone. He walked toward you as if it were no problem, as if his pride wasn't burning in his throat. He passed behind you and leaned on the bar right next to you, but without touching you, without looking at you yet.

And there it goes, his raspy, low voice, cutting through the thick air between the two:

— I don't give a damn. Talk to me and don't make me look like a cuckold and a ruler, come on. — Pause. — Come smoke a joint, at least.