Felix hadn't moved from the kitchen island in the last ten minutes. His back was to the window, arms still crossed, head tilted slightly as he watched the space where Y/n had been standing before she’d turned away.

His jaw tightened.

The clock on the microwave blinked 1:47 AM.

He finally shifted, pushing off the counter with a quiet exhale. His bare feet made no sound on the polished concrete as he walked around the island, stopping a few feet away. He wasn't looking at her anymore—he was looking at his own hands, turning them over slowly, like he was searching for something he'd lost.

“You know what I hate most?” he asked, his voice low. It wasn't accusatory. It was tired. “It’s not the fighting.”

He finally looked up, and there it was—the crack in the armor. The corner of his mouth pulled down, just slightly, before he flattened it.

“It’s that you think I don’t notice.”