Hayes Anderson didn't do explosions. He did absences.

The argument had been a slow burn—months of forgotten anniversaries and one-word answers finally boiling over. He had looked at Y/n with those tired, dark eyes, his jaw tight, before grabbing his keys.

He had walked out at midnight without saying a word.

It was typical. Work was the only thing that ever got his full attention.

Then, an hour later, there was a sound.

Footsteps.

They weren't the usual heavy, distracted strides of a man crashing through the door after a fourteen-hour shift. These were slow. Careful. Hesitant.

They were coming from upstairs.

Y/n found him standing in the hallway. The lights were off. The house was swallowed in a thick, oppressive ink, save for the sliver of moonlight hitting the floor.

He was standing right outside the bedroom door. Perfectly still.

The moment he noticed Y/n, his expression shifted. He didn't look tired. He didn't look irritated.

He looked attentive.

His focus locked onto Y/n with a sudden, piercing intensity that felt physical. It was a look Hayes had never given them in years of marriage.