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The argument started so small. A slip of words, a misunderstanding—but it snowballed, and now, as the clock ticks past midnight, the weight of it presses against your chest. You hear him pacing, the sharp click of his boots across the floor. You try to explain, try to reason, but the frustration in his voice climbs higher with every word.
“I can’t—” Remmick’s voice cracks, tight with something you’ve never wanted to see in him: anger. “I can’t do this right now. I need—”
“Remmick, wait—” you start, your own voice breaking.
“I—I’m going out,” he says finally, tone low but trembling. “Before I say—or do—something we’ll both regret.”
And then he’s gone. The slam of the door leaves a ringing in your ears, louder than any argument.
You flop onto the bed, expecting sleep to come. But it doesn’t. Anger churns in your chest. Your jaw aches from the stubborn set of it. Fingers dig into the sheets as you stare at the ceiling, willing yourself to cool down, willing him to come back.
Hours pass. Eventually, the faintest gray seeps into the edges of the sky, and then the gold of dawn. And still, he’s not home. Panic twists around your chest. The house is too quiet. The empty spaces too sharp.
By morning, you have to rise. Aisling, Jack, and Elijah are up, bouncing around, demanding breakfast, their tiny legs and voices pulling you back into the mundane tasks of the day. But everything feels off. Jack’s little face keeps falling when he looks toward the door. “Daddy’s not home,” he whispers at one point, and the words sink into you like a stone.
Elijah tries to distract him with his favorite game, but even he can’t shake the sadness that hangs over you all. Aisling clutches her rag doll tightly, the silent worry of a child too young to understand fully. You force smiles, try to keep the morning bright and the routine steady, but the absence of Remmick shadows every move.
The sun arcs across the sky, and you move through the day as if on autopilot, cooking, cleaning, pretending the worry in your chest isn’t clawing at you. Every sound at the door makes your heart leap.
Finally, as dusk paints the sky in bruised purples and golds, the unmistakable sound of boots on the porch snaps your head toward the door. There he is. Remmick. Alive. Whole. Your chest heaves with relief, but guilt knots your stomach. You want to run to him, wrap your arms around him, tell him you’re sorry.
But before you can speak, he’s already crouched down, scooping up Jack into his arms. The other two cling to him as well, voices tumbling over each other, questions, worries, laughter mingling with tears. His focus is entirely on them, and you realize you have no right to pull him away. He’s still tense, still hurt, and you were the cause.
You watch silently, heart aching, as he tucks the triplets into bed. The quiet that follows is unbearable. You don’t want to disturb him, don’t want to make him angrier, so you slip out onto the front porch, letting the old swing creak under your weight.
Minutes stretch into long moments. The sun has disappeared, leaving the soft chill of evening. Then, the familiar shuffle of boots on the porch. He sits beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him, but far enough that the tension remains, unspoken.
You don’t talk at first. The silence hangs between you, heavy but safe in its own way. You take a deep breath, and finally, the words tumble out.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shifts slightly to face you, expression softening. “I know,” he says gently. “But you have to understand… when I left, I was scared of hurting you, of saying something I couldn’t take back. It hurt, knowing… I didn’t know if you even cared.”
Tears prick your eyes. “I do care. I… I just… I don’t always know how to handle things right.”
“I know,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “We just… need to talk more. Before it gets this far. Promise me that?”
“I promise,” you say, leaning into him.
A pause, then, emboldened, you ask, “Where were you? You didn’t… you didn’t come home until now.”
He scratches the back of his neck, a flush creeping across his pale skin. “I… didn’t realize the sun was coming up until it was too late. I… ended up crashing at Bo and Grace’s,” he admits, voice low and sheepish.
You can’t help the laugh that slips out, soft and relieved. He nudges you, grinning faintly despite himself.
He shifts closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours on the swing. His arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you in tight. The tension of the night, the guilt, the worry—it all starts to melt as you rest against him.
His voice softens now, teasing, that glint in his eyes unmistakable—the mischievous, dangerous sparkle that always means he’s thinking more than he lets on.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, leaning his head close to yours, “this… this was our first big fight. Feels like… maybe we should go make up properly.”
You blink at him, startled by the sudden directness, but a laugh bubbles up anyway. The corners of his mouth tug upward, eyes bright with that Irish impishness, and suddenly it’s not just a quiet, tender moment—it’s full of electricity.
“I might just have a couple of ideas on how to let you know I’m sorry,” you say, voice low, teasing back.
He tightens his hold on you, the swing creaking under the combined weight of you both and your grins. “Oh? Well… I’m all ears, love. You better not keep me waiting.”
You nudge him gently with your shoulder, laughter spilling into the evening air. “I won’t. But just so you know… I think you’re gonna like them.”
He chuckles, that deep, slow laugh that always makes you shiver a little. “Then I suppose we should get started,” he says, eyes gleaming, and you feel your pulse race as the night promises more than just apologies—it promises you two, and you know you’ll both enjoy every second of it.