"Sometimes, the words left unsaid
echo the loudest"

It was late in the day, the sun slipping beneath the horizon and pulling Nashville's nightlife into full swing. To wind down, I met up with the guys at a downtown bar—one far enough from the drunken chaos of college kids on a Thursday night.

Work had already drained me. Nia got on me about the apartment complex project, digging into every detail—especially the playground. Apparently, it needed to be something that could bring tears to her eyes with that price tag? Yeah, not my fault, but I'd make damn sure it was straight out of a kid's wildest dreams.

My stomach growled, a reminder of how empty I felt after a day of back-and-forth with contractors. I didn't order anything heavy; Morgan had texted me earlier, saying she was at the grocery store picking up dinner. She was always looking out for me, so I kept it light: BBQ chicken tenders and a beer, the kind of comfort food that barely scratched the surface of what I actually wanted to eat—but it'd do.

The hum of laughter and clinking glasses filled the bar, a background noise that should've been comforting. I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light catch on the rim. Jabari's animated voice cut through my inner monologue, but I barely registered the punchline of whatever story he was telling.

Andy chuckled from across the table, shaking his head. "You're something else, J."

"Aye, I call it like I see it," Jabari shot back, grinning. He glanced at me, nudging me with an elbow. "What about you, bro? You with us?"

I blinked, dragging myself back to the present. "What was the question?"

"Forget it." Jabari laughs, changing the subject.

I nursed my beer, my eyes drifting between the muted game on the bar TV and Jabari, who looked like he'd just won the lottery. He was leaning back in his chair with that smug grin of his, waiting for someone to ask what he was so damn pleased about.

Andy finally took the bait. "Alright, man, spill it."

"Spill what?" Jabari played stupid, taking a drink of his beer with a grin still on his face.

"You hit the jackpot, or what? What's with the look?" Asked Andy, nudging Jabari.

I smirked, glancing at Jabari. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to let it go until someone gave him an opening.

"Better," Jabari said, leaning forward with a grin so big it was almost irritating. "I asked Faith to be my girlfriend. No games, no casual stuff. It's real this time."

That got my attention. "No games? No casual stuff? Huh."

Andy barked out a laugh before I could say more. "Damn. Didn't think you had it in you."

Jabari shot him the finger, but the grin stayed plastered across his face. "She's different. Makes me think about... I don't know, the future and shit."

I took a long sip of my beer, nodding slightly. "She's good for you."

Jabari's usual cocky edge softened, just for a moment. "She is," he said quietly. "I'm not fuckin' this up. Not with her."

I wanted to say more, but my phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the noise. A notification flashed on the screen and I got a glimpse of the date - my mother's birthday.

I hesitated, then grabbed the phone and stood. "I'll be back."

The bar noise faded the second I stepped outside, replaced by the chill of the night air. I stared at her name for a second before swiping to answer.

"Hey, Mom," I said, keeping my voice even.

"Chris," she replied. Her tone was clipped, distant—just like it's been for the past several months.

I swallowed hard. "Happy birthday, Mom."

"Oh. Thanks."

I cleared my throat. "How are things?"

"Fine. Busy. You know how it is."

"Yeah. Well... I just wanted to call."

"Thanks for remembering," she said cold. "Take care."

When the call ended, the silence felt heavier than it should. It was short, strained, and unfulfilling. Nothing like the mother I grew up with.

➤

Later that evening

After another half hour, I left Andy and Jabari at the bar and headed home.

The drive was quiet. I didn't bother with any music and only realized it once I pulled into the driveway. Sitting there, I lit a blunt and let the smoke settle into my lungs. The high came quick, and so did the thoughts, loud and unrelenting.

Morgan wasn't home yet.

Good, I thought. I could use some time to myself.

I was starving, though. That was the one thing I couldn't ignore. I went inside, grabbed a piece of red velvet cake—maybe two—and took it upstairs to my office.

"Fuck," I groaned as I sank into my drafting chair, easing into the worn leather like it was the only place I could breathe. My head fell back, resting against the chair, and I let myself stay there for a while, comfortable in the stillness. I could've stayed like that forever if my responsibilities hadn't started creeping into the better part of my high, pulling me back down to reality.

I leaned forward, still slouched, my legs stretched out and carelessly spread beneath the desk. My gaze drifted to the scattered concepts spread out in front of me, and a wave of stress hit hard and fast, sinking its teeth into me.

I stared at the sketches scattered across the desk, the lines blurring slightly as I leaned back again. It wasn't that I didn't know where to start—hell, I'd been doing this long enough to know exactly what needed to be done. It was the pressure of it all, the constant demand to get it right. Every wall I designed, every beam I calculated, felt heavier these days, like it wasn't just about the buildings anymore. It was about building something stable for Morgan and me - the desire to keep going so that I can provide for her and our future children.

That thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of my focus. I picked up a pencil and tapped it against the desk, my other hand mindlessly thumbing through the sketches. My latest project stared back at me—rough lines that could one day become someone's home. That should motivate me but it felt... hollow.

The pencil stilled in my hand as I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the designs. I wanted to feel that spark again, that pull that made this more than just a job. But all I felt was the weight of everything I couldn't control—my family, Morgan, my own damn head. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Maybe if I got started, I'd find my rhythm. Maybe.

With a resigned breath, I grabbed a ruler and started tracing over the sketches. The lines came slowly, uneven at first, but I forced myself to keep going.

Through the crack in my office door, I heard the front door open, followed by the familiar jingle of keys landing in the porcelain bowl on the entryway table. Morgan's soft voice floated down the hall as she greeted the dogs, her footsteps moving toward the kitchen.

Figuring she might need help with dinner—or maybe just some company—I decided to take a break from my work, or lack of it, and offer a hand.

I walked with a faint limp down the hall, rounding the corner into the kitchen. Morgan was at the sink, washing her hands efficiently, while some pop culture news droned from her iPad. Her Prada bag sat propped on the island next to an open bottle of red wine.

I paused in the doorway, taking a breath as Morgan turned and caught sight of me. She grabbed a towel and dried her hands, her expression lifting slightly.

"Oh, hey," she said with a touch of enthusiasm, though it felt more automatic than usual.

"Hey, baby," I replied, leaning against the counter. "How, uh, was your day?"

She popped a shoulder, giving me a soft smile. "Easier. You?"

"I'm just glad it's over," I said, huffing out a breath as my eyes landed on the spread of groceries on the counter. "Chicken fajitas?"

Morgan nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, twisted smile. "One of your many favorites." But the smile faded almost as quickly as it came, her focus shifting back to the cutting board and the pile of peppers she was prepping.

I cleared my throat, searching for something to say. "Smells good."

"Thanks," she said, her tone polite but distant. She didn't look up as she reached for the cutting board, sliding the sliced peppers into the skillet.

I leaned against the counter, listening to Morgan's humming—barely audible—but it wasn't the cheerful sound I usually heard from her. Her movements were quick, methodical, like she was trying to focus on the task and not me. The tension hung in the air, unspoken but heavy, like a storm waiting to break.

The sizzle of the vegetables filled the silence between us. I folded my arms across my chest, unsure if I should push past the awkwardness or let it sit. Lately, it felt like this—a series of polite exchanges, surface-level conversations that barely scratched the tension beneath.

She moved briskly, her movements quick and purposeful as she hustled between the sink, the fridge, and the island. Standing nearby, I caught whiffs of her signature baby powder and lavender scent every time she passed. That smell had always been my favorite on her—familiar, calming, and so distinctly her.

I stepped closer, reaching for the pack of chicken she'd left on the counter. "Want me to take care of this?"

Her hands stilled for a moment before she glanced at me. "Sure. If you want."

She handed me the knife, her fingers brushing mine for a split second. It felt like a reminder of how far apart we were.

I started slicing the chicken, keeping my movements steady as I tried to shake the feeling. I couldn't tell if I was more frustrated at her for shutting me out or at myself for not knowing how to fix it.

Once the chicken was sliced and added to the pan, I glanced at Morgan. "Need me to do anything else?"

She took a long sip of wine, her fingers loosely gripping the glass, and then shook her head. "Nope. I got it," she said, barely looking at me.

I sighed, trying to keep my voice even. "Let me help."

"I can do it. All by myself," she insisted, her tone clipped.

My patience was starting to wear thin. The words came out sharper than I intended, laced with sarcasm. "I think the point is, you don't have to do it all by yourself. In fact, it's better if we do it together."

Morgan froze for a second, her lips pursed as she exhaled hard. "But I—"

"I'm not asking," I cut in, my voice firmer now.

Her shoulders tensed, and the dish towel she'd been holding hit the island with a sharp thud. She turned to me, overwhelmed and visibly frustrated. "This isn't about fucking dinner, Chris!"

My jaw clenched as I tried to keep a lid on my own frustration. "What is it about, then? How you ignored me all morning?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "I only ignored you because of last night."

My eyes darted around, matching my confusion. "Last night?"

Then it hit me. "Last night? We had a good night... A real good night." My lips twitched into a smirk as my mind wandered, the memory flashing in vivid detail.

Morgan smacked her glossed lips, snapping me out of it. "It shouldn't have happened," she said, her face unusually serious.

"Alright, I'm lost. Now we can't have sex?"

Her head whipped in my direction, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "You don't come home late and tap me on the shoulder, expecting me to just roll over."

I scoffed, the sound harsher than I intended. "That's funny, because that's exactly what you did." The second the words left my mouth, I knew I sounded like a dick. And judging by the look on her face, she thought so too.

Morgan looked appalled, her mouth slightly open like she couldn't believe what I'd just said. Without a word, she spun on her heel and stomped out of the kitchen, heading upstairs. The sizzling food on the stove was left forgotten.

Now dinner had to suffer too? Great.

I exhaled hard, muttering a curse under my breath as I turned the burner down to low. The last thing we needed was the house catching on fire—though honestly, I might've taken that over this argument.

I flailed my arms in frustration, letting out a silent temper tantrum in the middle of the kitchen. My jaw tightened as I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling like it might give me some divine intervention.

But, of course, it didn't.

Still fuming, I dragged my feet toward the stairs, swallowing my pride long enough to follow her. I didn't know what the hell was going on in her head, but I needed to figure it out—even if this whole thing had me fucking flabbergasted.

When I got to the top of the stairs, the bedroom door slammed shut right in my face.

I exhaled hard, pressing my palm against the wood for a moment before speaking. "Morgan, I'm not trying to fight right now!" I raised my voice just enough to carry through the door as I pushed it open and stepped inside.

Morgan stopped pacing, planting herself in the middle of the room with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw was set, her glare cutting straight through me.

At a complete loss, I threw my arms up and let out a dry laugh. "You wanted me to fuck you, so I did. What is the problem?"

Her eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly, like I was speaking a language she didn't understand. "When I wanted it, you didn't."

I froze, staring at her as her words sank in. I was still lost, though, like she was playing some game where I didn't know the rules.

I blinked rapidly, trying to piece this together. "I was busy, Morgan," I said, drawing the words out, as if that would somehow make her see my side. "Why don't you understand that? Then you were busy, so when I came home and saw you were up, I figured we could just have sex. Why am I the bad guy?"

Her eyebrow arched, her expression unreadable. "So you just have sex with me because I want it?"

Maybe it was her time of the month. Maybe I was too high for this conversation. Or maybe it was both. Either way, I felt like I'd just stepped into a trap I couldn't escape.

I swiped a hand down my face, already feeling like anything I said would be the wrong thing. "What the fuck? What the actual fuck?" I muttered, pacing the floor with my hands planted firmly on my hips.

I stopped mid-step and stared at Morgan, pressing my hands against my lips like I was trying to keep myself from saying something I'd regret. "This is what I get for giving you what you want..."

"It's not about what I want, Chris," she countered, her voice firm, like she was stating the obvious.

I shook my head, utterly lost. "Then what is it about?"

As if the universe knew we needed a break from this argument, Morgan's phone rang.

"I need to answer that, it's probably Faith." Morgan spoke low.

I let her go, seeing our conversation wasn't going anywhere.

10:03pm

While Morgan took a call, I holed up in my office, catching up on work. It was something to do—sorry if to keep my mind from wandering. But eventually, even that wore thin. I closed my laptop, showered, and got ready for bed.

When I stepped into the bedroom, Morgan had already staked her claim. Her side of the bed was a mess of crumpled sheets, like she'd flopped down there earlier before she must've gotten up again. Probably to take another call or check her email downstairs.

The room felt darker than usual, quieter too. Without her usual liveliness filling the space, it seemed...empty.

I could still hear her voice from dinner, calm but clipped—frustration laced in every word.

I yawned, moving around the bed to plug in my phone. The mundane rhythm of it all felt heavier tonight.

Morgan emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face freshly washed and her hair tied back. She paused in the doorway when she saw me.

"Oh," she muttered under her breath, like she didn't expect me to be there.

She tiptoed toward the bed, cautiously sliding under the covers as if she might wake a sleeping bear.

"I'm not sleeping on the couch," I said, breaking the awkward silence hanging between us.

Her lips quirked up slightly—not quite a smile. "I wasn't going to make you."

I nodded, then climbed into bed, taking my usual spot.

I didn't prefer sleeping on my side, facing the window. Normally, I'd fall asleep on my back, with Morgan's leg thrown over me like it belonged there. Truth was, I never slept right without it.

"Good night," I said first, half hoping for a reaction.

"Good night," she hissed back, low and sharp.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "What happened to not going to bed mad at each other?"

"I'm not mad," she snapped, too fast to be convincing.

I exhaled slowly. "I'm not either."

"Good, then we're dropping it."

I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. "I wish you'd tell me what's on your mind."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "It's not going to get fixed overnight, Chris."

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. "I'm trying."

"So am I," she said softly.

She was trying—at everything else in her life. Just not with us. I wanted to tell her that, to say the words aloud, but instead, I turned over, away from her.

"Alexa, turn up the TV volume," I muttered, needing something—anything—to drown out my own thoughts.

I shut my eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. The space between us felt both too far and too close.