The argument didn't end.
We just stopped talking.
Leonardo looked at me for a few seconds.
That look wasn't anger.
It was hesitation.
He took a step back.
Then another.
"Don't do this," he said.
His voice was low but firm.
"Don't ask this of me."
"Ask what?" I asked.
Losing control.
He didn't say it.
His eyes moved across my face.
As if he was about to speak—
but he didn't.
He turned toward the door.
Stopped just before leaving.
"I'm staying in this house," he said.
"I'm not leaving."
Then he looked back at me.
"But tonight," he added,
"if we stay in the same room…
it won't end well for either of us."
He didn't slam the door.
He closed it quietly behind him.
His footsteps faded.
But his presence didn't.
His breath still lingered in the room.
So did everything he didn't say.
When I sat on the bed, my heart was still racing.
Him leaving wasn't an escape.
It was restraint.
We were under the same roof.
On the same night.
And we both knew—
this was only a postponed battle.