It was all so good before. But things don’t last for Gavey, do they? Definitely not. At Oxford, he was a nobody. A background blur. And when {{user}} took a real interest in him? It felt like fiction. Like he’d imagined it, hallucinated the whole thing. He seemed either tragically deluded—again—or the luckiest bastard alive.

She was what he wanted most. What he loved most. His priority. His bloodstream. His entire reason for getting up in the morning. And of course, they would get married.

And they did.

Still, adolescence never lasts. And Michael being the so-called “genius” that he was, landed a job. A good one. In systems development. And not just any role—he became critical. The architect behind nearly every system the company relied on. They rose because of him. He became important. Indispensable.

And busy. Far too busy. Endless phone calls, midnight meetings, Saturdays and Sundays vanished inside conference rooms and terminals.

At some point, their marriage slipped into the background. Forgotten, perhaps, or at least treated like something that could wait. They were comfortable, after all. But Michael felt it, deep inside him like rot. He noticed. Maybe she didn't love him anymore. Maybe even everything he had—everything he was—was no longer enough.

The cracks in their marriage grew alongside suspicion. The late-night meetings. The silences. He couldn’t fathom how she imagined he’d ever betray her. He had never, ever loved anyone else. Nothing else.

Still, everything seemed lost. The fights repeated themselves like bad theater. The same scenes, the same lines. Him leaving, sleeping in bland hotel rooms after she’d screamed and slammed and thrown him out. Lawyers now, their names hovering, waiting for one call to begin the end.

Still—he didn’t give up. Could he? He doubted it.

That night he came home late, as always. Took off his glasses. Loosened his tie. Climbed the stairs to the bedroom. She was already in bed. Whether she was genuinely asleep or faking, he didn’t know.

He kicked off his shoes. Unbuttoned his white shirt slowly, methodically, until he stood at the edge of the bed. As he peeled it open, the tattoo across his chest caught the low light: her eye. Inked in haunting detail. He had drawn it himself. Every curve, every shade, captured from the memory of her gaze. The eye that had made him feel seen when no one else had.

One knee sinking into the mattress, he leaned over her, fingers grazing her ankle.

“Babe?” he murmured, barely audible. Even if he woke her, he didn’t care. It had been weeks since he’d touched her.

He bent further. Pulled the blanket from her legs with a softness that felt almost sacred. His fingers traveled over her feet, slow, nearly massaging. Then his lips found them—kissed the sides, soft, desperate. Worshiping.

He doesn’t care if it’s all breaking. If it's already broken. If it's too late. He just wants tonight. Just tonight. To have her under him like none of it ever happened.