The first real fight did not come from jealousy or money. It came from time.

Time was the one thing neither of them could print more of. Time was also the one thing both of them were giving away.

It started on a Wednesday that was already heavy. They both had long days. Sophie had been in meetings since morning, dealing with clients who were scared and angry and tired. She carried that kind of pain home sometimes like it lived under her skin. Ethan had been running two classes at The Quiet Room and doing one-on-one calls with newer traders who felt like they were about to lose control. He carried that kind of panic home too, even when he pretended he didn’t.

By the time evening came, both of them were drained in the way that makes simple things feel sharp.

Sophie was sitting at the small kitchen table, still wearing her jacket, laptop open, shoulders tight. Ethan was at his desk, still answering messages. He kept checking his phone, kept typing, kept responding.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet tension filling the air like static.

Sophie finally said, without looking up, “Do you have to answer that right now”

Ethan didn’t turn around. “It’s a guy from class. He blew up his account again. I’m just talking him down before he does something stupid.”

She nodded a little. “Okay. But you’ve been talking him down for an hour.”

“It’s not that simple,” Ethan said. “He’s in the spiral. You know how that looks.”

“I do,” she said. “I see it every day.”

They both went quiet.

Then she said, “So when does it stop.”

He turned then. “What do you mean.”

“I mean when do you stop,” she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes weren’t angry yet. Just tired. “If they can text you any time and you answer every time, then when are you off. When are you not saving somebody.”

He let out a slow breath. “Sophie. You know what it’s like to be in that hole. I can’t just ignore it.”

“You’re not hearing me,” she said. “I’m not saying block him. I’m saying you don’t stop. At all. You wake up helping people. You work all day helping people. You answer them at night. You fall asleep thinking about them. I see you doing it. I see you getting pulled back into saving everyone. And I’m scared it’s going to eat you again.”

He rubbed his face and leaned back in his chair. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it,” she said softly.

Now he felt a little heat rise in his chest. Not anger. Defense. “I’m not going back to that version of me. You know I’m not. I’m not the guy who stops sleeping. I’m not the guy who disappears into a screen. I’m right here. I haven’t left.”

She stared at him for a second like she was deciding whether to say the next thing.

Then she said it. “You’re here. But you’re not always with me.”

That one landed.

He didn’t answer.

She exhaled. “You don’t have to fix the whole world, Ethan.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “And what about you,” he said quietly. “You get home later than I do. You bring your clients’ debt stories to bed with you. You answer emails when we’re supposed to be eating. You fall asleep holding a case file like it’s a pillow. You don’t switch off either, Sophie. You take people’s fear and you carry it like it’s yours. You tell strangers not to drown and sometimes you forget to breathe.”

Her jaw tightened. “So I’m the problem.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Now the room felt smaller.

He stood from his chair and walked closer. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying we’re both doing the same thing. We both give everything away. Maybe that’s not healthy.”

Her eyes flicked down, then back up. “So what are you really asking me.”

He swallowed. “I’m asking if we’re starting to trade each other for our work.”

Her face went still.

That line sat in the room between them like a dropped glass.

Sophie didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was softer. “You think I’m choosing work over you.”

“No,” he said. “I think you’re choosing everyone over you. And I’m doing the same. And if we don’t fix it, eventually there’s going to be nothing left for us to give to each other.”

She let out a shaky little laugh. “You sound calm but your hands are shaking.”

He looked down. His hands were shaking.

He hadn’t realized.

“I just don’t want to lose this,” he said.

Her expression changed. The tension in her shoulders dropped a little. “You’re not losing me, Ethan.”

“People don’t always leave fast,” he said. “Sometimes they just fade. I’ve watched it. I’ve watched people who love each other turn into people who live next to each other. I don’t want that. I’d rather fight than fade.”

That pulled her eyes to his. At last she stepped closer, her jacket still on, laptop still open on the table behind her.

“Okay,” she said. “Then say what you want.”

He nodded. “I want time that’s just us. No clients. No calls. No crisis. No someone out there needs me so I have to answer. Just you. Just me. Not because something’s wrong. Just because we’re not optional.”

Her eyes softened in a way that made his chest ache.

“That’s fair,” she said.

Then she surprised him.

“And I want something too,” she said.

“Anything,” he said.

“I want you to stop pretending you’re fine every time you take a hit,” she said. “Not just money hits. Emotional ones. I can tell when you’re carrying something. You get polite. You get extra calm. You say things like I’m okay and we’ll talk later. And then we never talk. I don’t need you to be strong all the time. I don’t love you because you’re unbreakable. I love you because you’re honest. So be honest with me. Even when it’s ugly. Especially when it’s ugly.”

He let out a slow breath. “That’s hard.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I said it.”

He laughed a little, weak but real. Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

The room felt lighter after that. Not fixed. But open.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, jacket still on, both of them still kind of tense but holding on anyway. No music. No perfect lines. Just two people trying.

After a long time, she said into his shirt, “We should set a rule. Like your trading rules.”

He smiled. “A rule.”

“Yes,” she said. “I like rules. Rules keep people safe.”

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the rule.”

“One hour a day,” she said.

He blinked. “That’s it.”

“One hour a day,” she repeated. “Phones off. Laptops shut. Nothing urgent unless it’s literally life or death. We sit. We talk. Or we don’t talk. We cook. We eat. We walk. We lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. I don’t care what it is. But it’s us. Fully us. You with me. Me with you. Not with everyone else.”

He looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded. “Done.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You agreed fast.”

“That’s because I want more than an hour,” he said.

Her mouth curved into a slow smile. “Greedy.”

“I’m a trader,” he said. “We scale in.”

She laughed and shook her head and he felt the weight in his chest start to break apart. He kissed her hair and said, quiet, “Thank you.”

For a while after that, the rule held.

They called it “the off hour.” It sounded almost like a joke, but it wasn’t. At first they had to remind each other. Sophie would reach for her phone out of habit and he’d take it from her and slide it into a drawer. Ethan would glance toward his desk and she’d grab his hoodie and say, “Uh-uh. You’re here.” Sometimes they’d cook. Sometimes they’d go for a slow walk with no destination, just blocks and streetlights and the sound of the city breathing around them. Sometimes they’d sit shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the living room with the lights off, sharing quiet like it was food.

Then something started to shift.

It wasn’t just the hour.

It followed them into the rest of their time. It made everything feel more present. Like their life had edges again. Like they could actually feel where “us” began and “the world” stopped.

One night, during their off hour, Ethan finally said something he had been carrying.

“I’m scared of failing you,” he said.

She didn’t even blink. “I know,” she said.

He let out a quiet breath. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me that you think I don’t already know,” she said. “Ethan. I’ve known that since the first rooftop. You think you owe me stability. You think you owe me calm. You think if you ever fall apart I’ll decide you’re not worth it and leave.” She looked straight at him. “I’m still here.”

He swallowed. “I don’t ever want to be the reason you break.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re one of the reasons I can get through the day without breaking.”

He felt that.

He felt it so hard he couldn’t speak for a moment.

Then she asked him, “What are you scared of besides that.”

He thought. “Losing myself,” he said.

“In what,” she asked.

“In saving everybody,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still trying to heal the kid I used to be. The one who didn’t have anyone. The one who had to figure it out alone. I see that same kid in everyone now, and I want to pull all of them out. But I can’t. I know I can’t. I still try.”

Sophie nodded slowly. “I do the same thing,” she said. “With the women I work with. I see versions of my mom. My aunt. My neighbors. Girls who were told to be quiet and smile and not ask questions. I want to fix all of it for them. I want to build a wall around every single one. I know I can’t. I still try.”

They sat with that together.

No blame. Just truth.

Then she smiled a little. “At least we’re the same kind of broken.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “That helps.”

Their lives did not suddenly become perfect after that. They still had long days. They still crashed hard some nights. The world still spilled into their home more than either of them wanted. But something had changed in them. Something small and steady and important.

They were no longer pretending they were invincible.

That honesty made them stronger than pretending ever did.

One weekend, a storm rolled through the city. Rain hit the windows so hard the glass hummed. The sky went dark at three in the afternoon. The street outside flooded fast. They stayed in, lights low, music playing quietly on the speaker. The off hour stretched into the whole night.

Sophie lay on the couch with her head in his lap, flipping through one of his notebooks. “Do you remember the first time we met in person,” she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“You looked nervous,” she said.

“I was nervous.”

“You hid it,” she said.

“No I didn’t,” he said. “You were just kind enough not to point it out.”

She smiled. “You asked me to pick a stock for you that day. Like that was normal.”

“It was normal,” he said.

“It was not normal,” she said.

“It worked,” he said.

She laughed. “Yeah. It worked.”

He brushed his fingers gently through her hair, slow, calm, steady.

She looked up at him. “Do you think we’re okay,” she asked.

He didn’t rush the answer. He thought about it. He felt it.

Finally he said, “Yeah. I think we’re okay.”

Her face softened, and she let out a quiet breath and closed her eyes again. “Good,” she whispered. “Then keep doing that.”

“Doing what,” he asked.

“Being here,” she said.

He sat with that, the weight of her head warm on his leg, the rain against the windows, the city outside pushing forward like it always does, and he realized something that settled deep in his chest.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t chasing the next move.

He was holding his position.