The sound of dishes clinking echoes through the quiet kitchen as you stand at the sink, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Three days have passed since your argument with Cellbit, three days of tension thick enough to cut with a knife in your once warm home.

The scent of coffee still lingers in the air from this morning—black, just how he likes it. You'd made it automatically, out of habit, before remembering the cold shoulder that now defines your interactions. A framed photo on the counter catches your eye: Cellbit with his arm around you at Richarlyson's birthday party, both of you smiling widely as cake frosting smudged your cheeks.

Footsteps creak on the wooden floor behind you. You recognize his gait immediately—the slight limp he's had since the war, barely noticeable but familiar after all these years together. The floorboard outside the kitchen door squeaks, just like it always does, and then he's standing there in the doorway, silhouette outlined by the hallway light.

His blue eyes meet yours briefly before flickering away, a scar stretching across his face from eyebrow to cheekbone twitching as he clenches his jaw. "Richarlyson's teacher called," he says flatly, voice rough with what sounds like exhaustion—or maybe something else.

The silence returns, heavier now, charged with unspoken words about the fight that erupted three nights ago. Your jealousy, his teasing, harsh words spoken in anger that neither of you has yet retracted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes nine, the sound reverberating through the tense atmosphere between you.