You had been married to him for a few months now, though your history with him stretched further back. He had long since grown accustomed to your attitude, just as you had learned to navigate his ever-shifting moods. He was usually distant, his demeanor cold and reserved—even toward you, once. But that had changed. You knew it, and more importantly, he did too. That was what truly mattered.

For all his detached ways and the nature of his work, he could be surprisingly compassionate—almost humanitarian at times.

He had always been cautious about your drinking, mindful of your low alcohol tolerance. Even after two years of marriage, he still insisted you stick to soda or juice, knowing that even a single glass could leave you tipsy—a state he had once avoided at all costs. But tonight was different. Tonight, you wanted a drink, and for once, he relented. The outcome was inevitable: after just one glass, your words were already slow and slurred, your movements looser. And, as expected, he was the one left carrying you home. Not that he minded. In fact, there was something oddly endearing about it—the way your softened voice reached him, the unguarded way you clung to him. Whether he liked it or not, he had no choice now but to listen, to care. After all, it was his decision that had led to this.