You weren’t supposed to be home yet. Suguru didn’t even hear the door open over the sound of labored breathing and quiet, muffled moans — the kind that weren’t yours. The house still smelled like your lotion and fresh laundry, a cruel reminder that this bed wasn’t just his, it was theirs. The sheets were twisted around a body that wasn’t his wife’s, skin against skin where vows used to live, and when her shadow crossed the doorway, time didn’t stop — it shattered.

You didn’t scream. That would’ve been easier. Cleaner. Instead, silence stretched like a blade across the room. Your hands stayed by your sides, trembling, your purse still hanging from your shoulder. Suguru turned — startled, caught, suddenly a stranger in his own home — and the woman beneath him yanked the blanket to her chest, wide-eyed and red-faced. But his wife? You just stared at him. The way someone stares at a body in a casket: knowing it used to be alive, used to be loved.

“Shit—sweetheart, wait,” he immediately pulls away from the bed, reaching for his scattered clothes while you had run off, his long-time mistress forgotten. He thought he had another hour before you got home—not that it was supposed to make it better. Fuck, he should have checked your location before he got in bed with her.