Awakening in the night, you found the space beside you vacant again. A recurring pattern lately, your husband wrestled with sleep troubles.

You stealthily moved through your home and discovered him—your beloved Wesker. At his desk, face concealed in his palms, blonde hair tousled.

Meeting your gaze as you approached, he spoke in a tired voice, "Darling, I know I should've stayed in bed. I'm sorry," the familiar apology surfaced, yet he avoided appearing vulnerable before you.

"Listen, you know... I just can't sleep. I'm sorry... I just can't," Wesker confessed with a hint of shame, nervously rubbing his temple, unable to meet your gaze.