The argument doesn't start loudly.
It begins with a sentence that lands too cleanly.
"You could fix this," Juni says.
They're standing in the kitchen, the light harsh against the counter, paperwork spread between them. The studio issue has stalled again—another polite email, another apology without action.
Elian looks up slowly. "I could influence it," he says. "That's different."
Juni's jaw tightens. "Different how?"
"In ways that set precedent," Elian replies. "Once I step in, everything after is questioned. Every decision. Every outcome."
Juni exhales sharply. "And if you don't step in?"
Elian doesn't answer immediately.
"That still costs me," Juni says. His voice is calm, but the words are cutting. "It costs time. Space. Energy. It costs me having to prove I belong in rooms that keep narrowing."
Elian rubs his temple. "I know. That's why I'm trying to be careful."
"Careful for who?" Juni asks.
The question hangs.
Elian's posture stiffens—not defensive, but guarded. "For both of us."
Juni shakes his head. "It doesn't feel like both. It feels like restraint that only I pay for."
"That's not fair," Elian says quietly.
Juni looks at him. "Neither is the process. But here we are."
Silence stretches. Not the comfortable kind they've learned to share. This one has edges.
"If I intervene now," Elian says, choosing his words carefully, "everything you build gets framed as something I allowed."
"And if you don't," Juni replies, "everything I build gets delayed or diminished."
They look at each other, the truth stark and unresolved.
"This isn't about pride," Juni says. "It's about survival."
"And this isn't about indifference," Elian counters. "It's about not letting the system decide what your work means."
Juni steps back, arms crossing loosely—not a shield, but distance. "You're protecting a future that assumes time will always be available."
Elian's chest tightens. "And you're asking me to use power in a way that might cost you later."
The argument doesn't escalate.
It narrows.
Eventually, Juni says, "I need some space tonight."
Elian nods. "Okay."
They don't touch. They don't soften the ending.
The absence of physical closeness is louder than any raised voice.
This is the first time they don't reach for each other afterward.
And as the door closes behind Juni, Elian understands something with painful clarity:
Restraint, even when principled, can still wound.