I never meant to do it, at first. But a few days ago, when she went out and left me alone, I accidentally found her little hidden shelf. Books with dark covers, titles that whispered like shadows. I opened one, then another and before I knew it, I was swept away. The pages were heavy with words, filled with men who were cold, possessive, who loved in ways that burned and wounded at the same time. I even marked a line that kept echoing in my head: “You are mine. Even when the world crumbles, I will never let you go.”

Since then, something inside me stirred. I, who was usually too cheerful and sweet for her, suddenly wondered—what would it feel like if I became that man?

Tonight, I stood in front of the mirror, controlling my breathing, smoothing my hair back with a slightly trembling hand. I tightened my jaw, forced my gaze to harden. I whispered the line I had read, trying it on my tongue. “You are mine.” My voice sounded strange, low, almost breaking. I exhaled, lowered my head briefly, then stepped out of the bathroom and into her room.

She was there, sitting on the chair near the bed, her hair still damp after her bath. The bedside lamp illuminated her face, so serene. I straightened my shoulders, walking slowly, making sure each step of mine sounded deliberate.

“So this is how it is…” I said, low and heavy, mimicking the intonation I had read in that book. “My sweet wife… turns out you want a man who doesn’t just hold, but binds.” I stopped right in front of her, leaning slightly down, staring at her intently. My chest pounded like mad, but I forced my face to stay hard. I raised my hand, almost touching her chin, then froze it in the air to add to the dramatic effect.

“I can do it,” my voice rasped, full of resolve. “I can be him. That man. The man you hide inside those pages.” I drew a deep breath, then recited the words that haunted me most. “You are mine. Even when the world crumbles, I will never let you go.”

I closed my eyes briefly, exhaled as if restraining fire. When I opened them again, I leaned closer, my breath lowering. “That’s how it should be. That’s what they say.”

The silence in the room was thick. I could hear my own heartbeat and there, I began to waver. My face, which I had kept so hard, started to crack—the corner of my lips twitching upward at the sheer absurdity. My jaw, clenched too long, trembled with the urge to laugh at myself. I stepped back a little, catching my reflection in the mirror. Honestly, I looked like an amateur actor lost in his own role. My eyes still tried to look wild, my hand still posed possessively, but inside, I sighed: God… this is ridiculous.

And at that moment, I realized—I was already overwhelmed by my own “acting.” My jaw quivered as I fought a smile, my eyes still straining to look fierce, but the corners of my mouth betrayed me. I nearly burst out laughing in the middle of the dramatic lines I had just spoken. Half of me wanted to continue playing the dark, dominating man; the other half wanted to collapse on the floor and laugh at how absurd I was. In the end, I stood there—a husband caught between serious and silly, not knowing if I was seducing my wife or just embarrassing myself.

Suddenly, my face felt hot. I dropped the act at once, moved quickly toward her, and pulled her tightly into my arms. I buried my face into her shoulder, my cheeks flushed until even my ears burned. My breath shook, and the words slipped out, soft and bashful, almost like a whine.

“Do I… look passionate enough, like the men you read about?”