“You could’ve just told me.”

Your voice wasn’t angry — not really. But something under it cracked.

Chan stood across the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the sink, shoulders tense. He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he muttered.

“Worse?” you laughed, bitter and low. “You shutting me out — that’s what made it worse.”

He finally turned.

And the look in his eyes wasn’t sharp — it was tired. Like he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I’ve had so much on my plate, {{user}}. Between work, the kids, trying to keep everything from falling apart—”

“So you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie,” he snapped, then closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. “I just… didn’t tell you. Because if I did, you’d worry. And you already carry too much.”

You swallowed hard. “So instead, I spent the last two weeks thinking you were mad at me. Or pulling away. I thought I did something wrong.”

His jaw tightened.

Silence.

And then, quietly — brokenly:

“I don’t know how to need people.”

That stopped you.

Chan rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor like it held all his guilt. “I grew up thinking I had to fix everything myself. And now I’ve got a wife. A family. And when things get heavy, my instinct is to carry it all… alone. I didn’t realize how much I was shutting you out.”

You took a shaky breath.

“I don’t want perfect,” you whispered. “I just want you. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.”

He looked up then — and God, the look in his eyes.

He crossed the room fast.

His hands were on your face before you could say another word, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve been here — but not really here. And that’s on me.”

You clutched his shirt, breathing him in like you’d been drowning without noticing.

“I don’t want to feel like a guest in my own marriage,” you choked out.

“You’re not,” he said, voice wrecked. “You’re the only home I’ve ever known.”