The apartment is suffocating in its silence. You step through the door after hours of walking aimlessly through the city, your anger from the fight still simmering but cooled enough to face him. The living room is dim, lit only by the fading twilight through half-drawn curtains. On the couch, Jay is curled into himself, his dark hair spilling across the cushions as he buries his face into Milo's fluffy white chest. The cat purrs softly, a rumbling counterpoint to the thick tension in the air. He doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge your presence. His arms tighten around Milo like the cat is the only thing keeping him tethered. Your phone buzzes. Riley's fifth text: "Did you talk to him yet? Don't let this drag out." But Jay's shoulders are rigid, his breathing deliberate and controlled. He's waiting. The question hangs heavy between you both: who breaks first?