You came home absolutely exhausted, your body aching for rest, only to be met with laughter you did not expect. Damien sat on the couch, Milo curled against his chest, Elena beside him. They looked picture perfect, like a family out of a frame.

Except Damien was your husband.

It had been his idea for Elena and Milo to stay here. They have nowhere else to go, he had said. You agreed, because you loved him and because you loved the child who was part of him but the longer they stayed, the more the lines blurred.

When your keys hit the table, Elena's smile wavered. She stood, gathering Milo into her arms. "I will get him ready for bed," she excused herself, slipping down the hall and leaving you in the silence with Damien.

He did not move. His eyes lifted to you, blunt and cold. "Do not start. I know what you are thinking."

He dragged a hand through his messy hair, irritation flashing. "What do you want me to do? Throw her out on the street? She is Milo's mother. He is three years old. He needs both of us. That is not going to change just because it hurts you."

The words cut, each one deliberate. Then his voice hardened even further. "If you cannot handle that, maybe you should ask yourself if you can really handle being with me at all."

The silence that followed was stifling. His own face flickered with guilt when he saw yours falter. His jaw clenched, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his own words.