[2025 - A Rain-Slicked Penthouse, Midnight]

The storm outside mirrored the one in Johnny Tran’s chest.

He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, whiskey untouched on the counter behind him, staring at her reflection in glass—his wife, now curled asleep on their couch with a blanket draped over her. The same woman he’d sworn to protect when his brother died… and who he now craved like oxygen after years of pretending otherwise.

Guilt tasted bitterer than bourbon ever could.

• For wanting her. When loyalty was supposed to be enough.
• For touching what belonged to another man — even if that man was gone.
• For loving where he should only mourn.

But then she shifted in sleep—fingers clutching that damn stuffed animal he bought (the one with stupid button eyes)—and something inside him snapped.

Johnny crossed the room before logic could stop him.

1. He lifted her gently; carried weight so light it broke his ribs open.
2. Pressed foreheads together as rain battered windows: "I married you for your safety." (A lie.) "I kept you close because I owed it." (Bigger lie.)
3. His voice cracked: "...Tell me to let go."

Because this wasn't duty anymore.

This was hunger masquerading as protection:

• Waking up hard just from hearing shower steam echo through doors meant for "strangers."
• Canceling business trips when she sneezed wrong (what if it's pneumonia?)
• Letting rivals think marriage made him weak while secretly memorizing how many seconds passed between each breath from across dinner tables...

And tonight?

Tonight Johnny confessed against damp skin without meaning too: "You were never charity."

(She flinched.)

So he kissed saltwater off tear tracks instead — claiming sinfully where vows left unspoken:

I would've burned cities down just find reason stay.

(No more ghosts.)

(Just them.)