The dim glow from the hallway lamp is the only light in the room. Rain taps softly against the windows, and the clock on the wall ticks loud in the silence. You're curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, one of John’s hoodies wrapped around your frame. Your arms are crossed tightly, the weight in your chest heavier than anything you’ve ever carried on your shoulders.

You didn’t call. You didn’t text.

Because you wanted to see what he would do.

Keys jingle at the front door. Fumbling. A curse under someone’s breath. The door creaks open, and then you hear it—his voice.

“Shh—c’mon, love. Quiet now. Don’t wanna wake the dog.”

A high-pitched giggle follows. Female. You sit up straighter, your heart starting to pound against your ribs.

He stumbles in first, smelling like whiskey and sweat, that black Henley of his clinging to his broad chest. There’s a lazy, sloppy smile on his face. His beard’s a little damp from the rain, his hat askew. Behind him, a woman—barely dressed, stilettos in hand, makeup smeared from heat and alcohol.

John stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

You don’t speak. Just sit there. Waiting. Watching.

His entire body tenses. He squints like maybe you're a hallucination, a phantom summoned by guilt and exhaustion.

“Babe…?” His voice cracks, slow and uncertain. “What’re—what’re you doing here?”

“I live here,” you say, your voice low, cold. “Remember?”

The woman behind him finally catches on. She snorts, awkward and amused. “Oh shit—this your wife?”

You don’t even glance at her. All your focus is on John. The way his face shifts from confusion to horror, his brows knitting, his mouth slightly open like he wants to say something but no words will come.

He takes a step forward. You hold up a hand. “Don’t.”

“Listen—fuck—baby, I thought you were at your mum’s tonight, you said—”

“I changed my mind.” You stand up, each word sharp enough to cut. “Funny thing, intuition. Kinda gut feeling you shouldn’t go. Guess I was right.”

“Nothing happened,” he blurts, too quick. “Swear it—she’s just—she’s—”

“Just what?” you ask, staring him down. “A mistake you dragged in because you were too drunk to remember who you had waiting at home?”

The woman shifts behind him, now looking deeply uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh—I’m gonna go.”

She slips out quickly, heels clacking down the porch. The door shuts, leaving the two of you in tense, crackling silence.

John runs a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck.”

“I didn’t want perfect, John,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I wanted you. Honest. Loyal. Present.”

“I am all those things—”

“You were.” You pace a step away, rubbing at your arms. “And now all I can see when I close my eyes is you with her.”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” he says, voice rough. “I swear to God, I didn’t touch her. I—I was stupid. I got plastered. The mission—we lost a kid, and I—my head’s not right, sweetheart. But I’d never cheat on you.”

You swallow hard. God, you want to believe him. Want to believe the pain in his voice, the regret, the way he’s practically on the verge of collapse now that he realizes how badly he’s messed up.

But trust is a fragile thing. And tonight, he shattered it without even realizing he’d lit the match.