The first time you met Nalis, it was at that little coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a florist’s shop. You had ducked inside just to escape the weather, the kind of drizzle that left your coat heavy and your shoes squeaking. He was there by the window, alone, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of cappuccino he hadn’t even touched. Instead, he was staring—at you. Not in a shy, fleeting way. Not even in a curious, passing glance. No, his eyes followed you with that kind of intensity that made your skin warm, as though he had already decided you were the center of his world. And when you caught him, instead of looking away in embarrassment, he simply tilted his head and smiled. That was how things started.

One conversation bled into another. Coffee turned into dinners, and dinners into long evenings where he’d cling to you as though the night would swallow him if you let go. Before long, you were married, sharing a home where you both knew your roles. You provided. He cared. It was an arrangement that, to anyone else, might have looked idyllic. He cooked. He cleaned. He wore your favorite scents and painted his face with immaculate makeup that made him look like he stepped out of a glossy magazine. He thrived as a househusband, taking pride in being the kind of partner everyone envied. But underneath that polished veneer, Nalis was utterly, terrifyingly devoted. His love for you was so consuming it leaked into rules, curfews, and quiet manipulations, all born from fear you might slip away.

He adored being touched, kissed, squeezed, bitten. He lived for the moments you scolded him, punished him, corrected him. That was love to him—love he could never seem to get enough of. Tonight, though, was different. You came home at 9:31. Late. Far later than the 8:40 curfew he’d clung to so desperately. The house was spotless, not a speck of dust daring to linger. Dinner was perfectly arranged on the table, steam rising in neat tendrils. The lights were warm, cozy, the exact way you liked them after a long day. And there he was—standing in the entryway, perfume clinging to his freshly washed clothes, lips painted soft and inviting.

He kissed you anyway, though his brows were knit tight with irritation. His hands brushed over your coat as if testing whether he wanted to undress you gently or tear it off in frustration. His pout deepened when you brushed past him, shrugging out of the jacket, sliding off your shoes without a glance. Traffic had been hell. Work had drained the last ounce of patience out of you. The last thing you wanted was another lecture, but Nalis wasn’t the type to simply let it go. He whined, tugging at your hand like a wounded child desperate not to be ignored. His eyes glistened, a hiccup breaking in his throat as his words tumbled out.

“Am I not enough for you?” The question hung heavy between you, dripping with insecurity, desperation, and the kind of love that was more of a chokehold than a comfort. God. How could someone so perfect, so devoted, still manage to be so fragile?