"Morning," Brian mumbled into the rim of his coffee mug.
Olivia rounded the corner of the kitchen, tying her robe in the front and avoiding his eyes.
"G'morning."
He kissed her on the cheek as he handed her a steaming cup. Their exchange was routine, but distant. Almost cold. She broke away with her coffee, taking a seat behind the bar. Her eyes slipped shut as she took a long swig of the liquid energy, imagining the trail of heat burning away the memories of the night before on its journey down. Gently twisting her mug between her palms, she could sense Brian looming from where he stood against the kitchen sink, and she knew what was coming. It was right on the tip of his tongue: The needless apologies. The tired questions. The reassurance.
"Eggs?" He asked instead, his airy tone catching her off guard.
"No thanks," she cleared her throat, shaking the grogginess loose from her throat.
He shrugged and got to work on his own breakfast, bending down to retrieve the skillet from the bottom cabinet. Her eyes followed him as he moved about the kitchen, seemingly unaware of her skeptical gaze.
"Everything okay?" she tested the waters, feeling a bit like she was poking a sleeping bear. She knew she should just be grateful for the silence and leave well enough alone, but his chipperness was somehow more unnerving than the alternative. Perhaps it was because she couldn't reconcile this version of Brian with the one she saw last night. The one with scalding apprehension in his eyes, the last glimpse of his confusion she'd caught before shutting herself away in the bathroom for a long night of self pity. She pressed her palms tighter against her mug.
"Sure," he replied without looking up, "Fine."
"That's my line," she quipped, hoping to lighten the tension. But he barely cracked a smile.
"You sure you're okay?" she pressed just a little harder, and the loud clanging of metal on metal as the pan hit the stove told her she'd gone just over the limit . She jumped back at the sudden movement as Brian whipped around to face her, sudden anger shattering his mask of composure.
There it was.
"What, Olivia? What do you want me to say?"
She blinked once, twice, her mouth gaping open. She closed her lips and opened them, trying to come up with a response that both of them wouldn't know was completely empty.
"You know, it's not even worth trying," he shook his head, waving her off before she could respond, and her heart dropped at the implication, terrified of what he would say next, "Tell me, how do you think this plays out? You ask me what's wrong, and say I dare to tell you. Huh? What happens then? What do you do if I tell you exactly how I feel about last night? Are you going to talk about it with me?"
"I-"
"No, you won't," he steamrolled over her, "Because it's the same song and dance every damn time. You'll brush it off. You'll tell me to drop it, refuse to acknowledge that maybe it's not just you in this relationship."
"That's not-"
"Hell, maybe you'll get mad and slam the door on the way out and I won't see you again until you come home long after working hours are over. You know that's my favorite."
When she finally managed to squeeze a response between his tirades, the frustration had manifested itself into bitterness in her tone.
"I'm sorry, did I offend you last night?"
"Did you-? Oh, my god," he shook his head, scraping a palm over his mouth, "You know that's not true. Don't even try to spin it like that."
"What's your problem then?"
"My problem," he retorted, "Is that you've backed me into a corner, Olivia. Do you even see that? I've tried so hard, so hard, to help you and you just keep pushing back. I'm done."
Olivia felt her pulse freeze in her veins at the words. Done. The familiar sting of abandonment prickled through her body, collecting behind her eyes, ready to spill, and she could feel her armor hardening and cracking all at the same time.
"You're done?" She tried to inject some acid into her words, but it was the tremor of fear that broke through instead, "So what does that mean?"
For the first time in the conversation, his eyes softened just the slightest, taking her in with a look something like pity. It made her stomach roll.
"I have to go," he spoke evenly, turning away from her to brace his hands on the counter. She stared at his back, waiting, watching the labored rise and fall of his shirt against his ribcage. His head fell forward and the tension visibly drained from his arms, his body going slack with quiet defeat.
"I'll be home tonight, okay?"
He stopped short after placing his empty mug in the sink, pausing before turning back to her. For a moment, his eyes shone with that desperate innocence she had expected when she first walked into the kitchen, that hopelessly hopeful plea that somehow hadn't been crushed out of him yet. God, how had it not been crushed out of him yet?
"Unless...Unless you do want to talk about it," he took a step closer, "I can call Tucker, make something up…"
He knew before he could even finish his sentence. She didn't have to say a word.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
But it wasn't the anger she suspected to hear. It was something worse. Like disappointment. Familiar, expected disappointment.
She swallowed the lump in her throat before speaking but it didn't go all the way down.
"I'll see you tonight?" she asked.
"Yeah," he didn't meet her eyes, "Yeah, I'll see you tonight."
He had grabbed his jacket and his keys and crossed the room to the door when she rotated on her stool and stopped him with a shaky voice.
"Brian, wait."
He turned back to her.
"I'm sorry."
She released the familiar words into the empty air between them. There was something so tired about the exchange. This couldn't be the dance for the rest of their lives. At some point, they had to move beyond the constant tango of weary eyes and apologies. Of trial and error. And error. And error. As they stood locked into each other from across the room, their lives remained at a standoff. One of them had to make a move. To take a step, to push onward past this barren land. Or one of them, she knew, would have to walk away.