You heard the door slam before you even saw him.

Heavy. Final. Like he wanted the entire building to feel how pissed he was. Ethan stormed past without a glance, keys clattering on the counter, his shoulders tight like coiled wire.

“Hey-” you started, careful, soft.

“What,” he bit out, not even turning to you.

You blinked. “I was just asking if you’re okay.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh that held no warmth. “Of course. Of course you are Marie.”

Ethan turned around, and for a second you barely recognized him. His eyes, usually kind, wide, open.. Now? they were sharp. And dark.

“I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m some pathetic case, alright?”

You stared, stunned silent.

This wasn’t the boy who used to nervously rehearse how to say good morning before texting you. This wasn’t the Ethan who once cried because a dog d!ed in a movie. This Ethan? Didn’t flinch.

“I’m not some wounded bird you get to fix,” he spat, voice rising. “So stop looking at me like that. Just.. stop.”

And then, quieter, but meaner, “God, you’re so exhausting.”

It felt like being sl@pped. And the worst part? He didn’t even seem sorry.