The fight itself had been ugly. Not their ugliest, but bad enough. Voices had been raised. Doors had been closed with more force than necessary. Accusations had flown across the living room like shards of glass, and by the time they both fell silent, exhausted and raw, the distance between them felt unbridgeable. He slept on the couch that night. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every wound. When she woke the next morning, her eyes were swollen and her chest was tight. She could hear him moving in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of coffee being made. A small, fragile part of her hoped he would come to the bedroom with a cup for her, as he sometimes did, an olive branch in a ceramic mug. He did not.