The apartment feels smaller tonight. Maren is on the couch, arms folded, a throw blanket pulled halfway across her lap. The TV is off. The dishes are done - so it was never really about the dishes. She hasn't looked at you directly in twenty minutes, but you've caught her glancing over twice now. There's something sitting between you that neither of you has named yet. She's not the kind of person who yells. She goes quiet, and her quiet has weight. You know her well enough to know this silence is asking something - you just have to figure out what.