âI left you a little gift in the kitchen.â
The reaction in him was immediate, almost brutal in how cleanly it cut through everything else. Whatever had been holding him in place snapped, and she saw it before she even registered it properly, the way his focus shifted, the way his body followed before his patience could catch up. He moved first, and that alone was enough to drag her forward, refusing to be left behind in something she had started, her steps quick and unthinking as she followed him through the flat, the atmosphere tightening with every meter until the kitchen finally came into view. The laptop was there before anything else. Wrong. Open in a way it shouldnât have been, half-submerged, water pooling like it had already decided the outcome. It didnât look dramatic. That was the worst part. It just looked final. She slowed without meaning to. It hadnât looked like that in her head. Back then it had been simple, almost abstract, another object in a room full of things she didnât want to think about too long. Something to take, to ruin, to make a point with. But now it had weight. Consequence. Something that didnât reset cleanly just because she walked away from it. His voice cracked through the space before she could settle into that thought, louder than anything he had said all night, and it hit harder because of it. Her body reacted before her mind agreed to it, a small, involuntary flinch that annoyed her more than it startled her. She could handle yelling. She had handled yelling before. But not from him like this. Not aimed this directly, not with that kind of disbelief threaded through it. It made something in her chest tighten, unfamiliar and unwelcome, like the room had tilted slightly off balance.
And then he started talking about it.
Not just the laptop. What was inside it. What it meant. The hours, the work, the things that couldnât be replaced by money or convenience or whatever excuse she had been building in her head on the way here. It stopped being an object the more he spoke, and she hated how quickly that shifted something in her perception, how quickly it stopped being defensible in the way she had convinced herself it was. She hadnât thought about that part. That realization landed quietly, but it didnât leave. Her arms folded without intention, more as a reflex than a barrier, like she could physically contain the discomfort creeping in if she held herself tight enough. Her gaze flicked away for half a second, toward the sink, then back again, as if looking directly at it for too long might make it worse. âDonât be so dramatic,â she said, but it came out wrong, flatter than she intended, like it had missed the mark before it even left her mouth. âYou probably have it all on iCloud.â Even she could hear how thin it sounded.
So she pushed forward before it could collapse on her entirely, words coming faster now, stacking too close together to leave room for thought. âYouâll buy another laptop,â she continued, almost defensive in how quickly she moved past it. âYou always do. You replace things. Thatâs kind of your thing, isnât it?â It was meant to land like a joke. It didnât. Because somewhere between the kitchen and his reaction, something else had entered the space between them. Not louder than the fight, but bigger than it. The mention of media, of exposure, of everything leaving the room and becoming something permanent outside of it. That part didnât sit in the same category as broken objects. That part didnât get fixed.
Her posture changed before she admitted why, shoulders tightening slightly, chin lifting a fraction like she was trying to reclaim altitude she hadnât realized she lost. The chaos in her didnât vanish, it just condensed, sharpened, turned inward. Her eyes stayed on him now without breaking, studying him like she was recalculating risk instead of emotion. âMarry me,â she said under her breath, almost to herself, like the idea still didnât make sense even as it left her mouth. Then, with a faint twist of disbelief, âas if I ever said yes.â Her gaze dragged over him slowly, catching on the tension still sitting in his frame, the aftermath of everything he had just said, and something in her expression tilted into something more cutting, less defensive, more aimed. âYou were practically hard two seconds ago,â she added, voice quieter but edged in a way that didnât need volume, âand now youâre acting like I killed somebody.â She held it there, letting the words sit between them, letting him hear exactly what she meant beneath them, even if she wouldnât name it outright.
Then she exhaled, small, controlled, like she was sealing something shut. âSo donât,â she continued, voice dropping into something steadier, more precise, âeven think about calling the cops. Or the media.â No teasing in it anymore. No performance. âBecause that,â she said, chin lifting slightly, eyes unwavering now, âisnât something you fix. Thatâs not work you redo or replace.â
âThatâs my entire career.â Her fingers flexed once at her side, restrained only by will, not calm. âAnd you know what happens,â she added, softer now, almost dangerously quiet, âif you even think about doing that to me.â The silence that followed wasnât empty. It was aimed. âYouâre dead to me.â Her eyes didnât leave his, stubborn about it, almost defiant, but the longer she stayed there, the harder it became to keep everything in place. There was too much in it now, too much left unsaid, too much she couldnât quite control anymore, and it pressed at her chest in a way that felt dangerously close to breaking through. It hit her all at once, strong and unwelcome, the burn behind her eyes she hadnât signed up for. It made her blink slower, once, then again, like she could push it back by force, like she could refuse it out of existence if she just held herself still enough. She hated that it came now of all times, hated that it came in front of him, after everything she had done, everything she had said. For a second, she didnât know what to do with herself.
Leave, her mind said immediately, clean and simple. Walk out before it shows, before he does something. Before this turns into something else entirely.
Stay, something else pushed back, quieter but more stubborn. Stay and see what he does. See how far heâll take it. See if he actually means it.
She stepped back anyway, turning toward the door like she had already decided, like distance would fix it. Her hand almost reached for the handle, close enough to leave. But she stopped just short of it, fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before dropping back to her side, her shoulders tightening as she stayed there instead of walking out. The silence behind her felt louder now, heavier, pressing into her back, demanding an answer she hadnât gotten yet. She couldnât leave without knowing. She needed to see it. Needed to know if he would actually do it.
