Aaron didn’t expect Julia to still be awake when he got out of the shower. It was nearly eleven, and she usually crashed earlier after days as heavy as this one. But when he walked into the bedroom, towel around his neck, she was sitting up against the headboard with her laptop open, the glow lighting her face in a cold, tired blue.

“You’re still working?” he asked gently.

She didn’t look up. “I have to finish the Kline revisions before morning. They moved the presentation again.”

Aaron hesitated. “You’ve been going nonstop all week.”

“That’s how deadlines work.”

He almost said, *That’s not how it should work*, but bit back the comment. He didn’t want to sound like he was criticizing her workload when she was already drowning in it.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you eat dinner?”

“Not really.”

“You should have.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

He didn’t respond. He knew that tone—the one that meant the conversation was already close to the edge.

He dried his hair and moved to the dresser to put away his clothes. Behind him, Julia’s typing sounded frantic, uneven, like she was trying to outrun something. After a few minutes, he turned back to her.

“Do you want me to make something for you?” he asked. “Even something small?”

“No, Aaron,” she said, sharper than she probably intended. “I said I’m not hungry.”

He paused. “Okay.”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I’m sorry. I just need to focus.”

“I get that.” He sat down again. “But you haven’t taken a break since you got home.”

“That’s because there’s no time for a break.”

He studied her face—tense, pale, exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. “You know you don’t have to do everything perfectly.”

She finally looked at him, her eyes tired but alert. “I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to keep my job.”

“You’re not going to lose your job,” Aaron said softly.

“You don’t know that.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t know that. Not really.

Julia took a breath, steady but uneven. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap. I’m just… overloaded.”

“I know,” Aaron said. “But I want to help.”

She pressed her laptop closed halfway, enough to show she was listening. “I know you do. But there are some things you can’t help with.”

He frowned. “I didn’t say I could fix everything.”

“But you try,” she said. “And then I feel like I’m disappointing you when I can’t be calm about everything.”

Aaron blinked, startled. “You’re not disappointing me.”

“Aren’t I?” she asked quietly.

The room went still.

“No,” he said firmly. “Julia, no.”

She looked away, her jaw tightening. “I just… I don’t know how to be right now. I feel like I’m holding too many things and dropping all of them at once.”

“You’re not dropping anything.”

“You’re being kind,” she whispered. “And that makes me feel worse.”

Aaron stared at her. “Worse?”

“Because I don’t have the energy to match it.” She rubbed her eyes. “You’re being patient and present and trying, and all I can do is… survive the day.”

He sat beside her slowly. “You don’t have to match me. That’s not how this works.”

She didn’t move closer. She didn’t pull away either.

“I went by the house today,” he said quietly.

She tensed. “Why?”

“I just wanted to see if there was progress.”

“And was there?”

He hesitated.

She closed her eyes before he answered. “Of course there wasn’t.”

“Julia—”

“It’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “I just… I can’t deal with more bad news tonight.”

“It wasn’t exactly bad news,” he tried. “David said—”

She opened her eyes sharply. “I said I can’t deal with more news tonight. Can you respect that?”

Aaron pulled back like he’d been hit. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

“I know,” she said, but her voice was strained. “But it still does.”

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

She exhaled shakily. “I’m so tired, Aaron.”

“I know.”

“And every time you try to talk about the house, I feel like I’m being pushed underwater.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. We won’t talk about the house.”

“Not tonight,” she said. “Please.”

“Okay,” he repeated. “Not tonight.”

Her laptop reopened with a faint click, the conversation dissolving into the hum of the computer fan. Aaron sat still, unsure where to put his hands, unsure how to anchor himself in a moment that suddenly felt fragile.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you want me to stay here or give you space?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He nodded. “I’ll stay. But I’ll be quiet.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

They stayed like that—him sitting beside her, her typing, both suspended in a fragile bubble of exhaustion. Every few minutes Julia exhaled sharply, like her body was trying to calm itself despite her racing thoughts.

Around midnight she finally closed her laptop. “I’m done for now.”

“You should sleep,” Aaron said.

“I will.”

She lay down on her side. Aaron turned off the lights and joined her. The bed shifted under his weight.

“You’re not mad, right?” she asked into the dark.

“No,” he said immediately. “Are you?”

“No. Just… stretched thin.”

He reached for her hand under the blanket. She let him hold it, but her fingers curled only slightly around his.

After a moment, she said, “I don’t want us to fight.”

“We’re not fighting.”

“It felt close.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But we talked. That matters.”

She didn’t respond. Her breathing slowly evened out, somewhere between wake and sleep. Aaron stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling.

It hadn’t been an explosion.  

It hadn’t even been a real argument.  

But it had been the closest they’d come in a while.

And the closeness scared him more than the silence.