When I woke up that morning, the house was quiet again.
But this time, the silence wasn't peaceful.
I found him in the kitchen.
He was on the phone, his voice low but sharp.
"No," he said. "That's over."
He noticed me and ended the call.
Set the phone down.
"You're not going out today," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," I replied calmly.
His brows tightened.
"The city isn't safe this morning."
I reached for the coffee machine.
"You're not locking me in," I said. My voice was still calm—but firm.
"You don't understand," he said, stepping closer.
"I do," I answered. "I just refuse to live in fear."
The distance between us disappeared.
Our voices didn't rise, but the tension did.
"Sometimes you need to stay quiet," he said through clenched teeth.
I looked up at him.
"And sometimes you need to listen."
He froze.
I felt his breathing change.
"I'm doing everything I can," he said more quietly.
"I know," I replied. "But that doesn't give you the right to erase me."
He placed his hand on the counter.
He was right beside me.
"You're dangerous," he said.
"For you," I answered.
This time, he didn't respond.
His gaze darkened—but there was no anger.
Something else lingered there.
He took my hand. I didn't pull away.
But I didn't surrender either.
"You're making this harder," he said.
"So are you," I whispered.
For a moment…
the argument gave way to something else.
Something dangerous. Warm. Suppressed.
Then he released my hand.
Stepped back.
"You're not going out today," he said one last time.
"Today," I replied. "But what about tomorrow?"
He didn't answer.
But his eyes said everything.