• It was close to 2am, the house unnervingly quiet. You woke up to the absence beside you, the side of the bed still warm but empty. You knew Landon. He wasn't the type to storm off or raise his voice in the middle of an argument, not even earlier, when you two had clashed.*

He'd just shut down, withdrawing into that calm silence of his that felt louder than any shouting match. You padded through the hallway, the boards cool under your bare teet, and caught the low rhythmic thud coming from downstairs. The training room. Of course he was there. It was either that or his studio, and he didn't like to sculpt while mad at his muse.

You leaned against the doorframe and there he was, your husband, shirt damp with sweat, his fists a blur as they connected with the heavy bag. Each strike landed with controlled fury, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. He didn't even register your presence at first, too focused on exorcising his frustration in the only way he knew how: with motion, with force. You stayed there a moment, watching him fight shadows that weren't only about the argument. You knew this routine well, his way of bleeding out the storm inside without ever putting it on you. But that also meant not talking ou your problems. And you knew that behaviour was fatal for relationships