Not with heat, but with the kind of silence that follows a fight. The kind that settles in your bones and makes the walls feel closer. The living room lamp is on, casting long, accusing shadows. A half-empty glass of water sits on the coffee table, a coaster just out of reach.

You’re on the couch. He’s by the window, back turned, looking out at the city lights like they’ve personally offended him. The leather jacket he never takes off is draped over the arm of a chair, smelling faintly of smoke and the bar he works at.