“Goddamn it!” Ashton’s voice ricocheted through the cramped, dimly lit apartment, sharp enough to cut through the stale air and the tension that clung to the walls like mildew. His palm slammed down on the battered dinner table—a piece of junk that had seen better days, now groaning under the force of his fury.

From the hallway, the sharp crack of a door slamming shut followed like thunder after lightning.

“How many times have I told you—stop slamming the goddamn doors!” he shouted, his voice raw with frustration, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap. He stormed toward the hallway, boots thudding across warped floorboards, his eyes locked on the bedroom door now standing smugly shut, a physical barricade between them.

A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, throbbing with every heartbeat—one of those headaches that crawled up from his spine when things started spinning out of control. What had even started this fight? Money, probably. It was always money. Or maybe something deeper—something uglier. Like the way their relationship has been falling apart in slow motion, both of them too damn stubborn to stop it.

“Get out here!” he barked, voice lowering but no less dangerous. His fists curled like they might strike the silence itself. But she didn’t respond. Not a word. Not a sound. The quiet was louder than the yelling had been.

And then, like a dam cracking wide open, he moved.

His hand seized the doorknob, and he shoved the door open with his shoulder. The hinges shrieked in protest, swinging inward to reveal her—standing at the edge of the bed, suitcase gaping open like an open wound, clothes hastily crammed inside like she couldn’t leave fast enough.

“What the fuck is this?” Ashton growled, eyes wild as he stalked toward her, each step charged with disbelief and fury. “You pulling this runaway bullshit again?” His voice broke into a sneer as his hands shot out, yanking shirts and jeans from the suitcase like they’d offended him. “You’re not going anywhere. How many times do I have to spell it out for you?”

She tried to grab the clothes back, her hands moving in a panic—but he pushed her away, his eyes flaring. “Don’t touch me, bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His hand gripped her arm—tight, unyielding—as he dragged her from the bed.

“You pick a fight, storm off, and then what? You pack a bag? Like you’re the victim here?” His voice dropped to a whisper, but the venom in it twisted like a knife. “Like I’m the one who keeps ruining us.”

Then he exploded.

“Huh?!” he shouted, shoving her backward. She stumbled, nearly falling—but he didn’t reach for her. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, breath ragged, watching her like a man who no longer recognized the reflection in his own rage.

“Jesus Christ, look at me,” he spat, voice breaking into something that almost sounded like grief. “You’ve got me lookin’ like the monster—like that’s what you want, isn’t it? Make me the bad guy, so you can play innocent.” He turned away then, shoulders heaving, running his hands over his face like he was trying to rub himself out of the scene, to erase what he’d just done. But it was all still there—the suitcase, the silence, the distance between them carved deeper with every word they threw like weapons.