His POV

I came home late. Again.

The kind of late that made the moon look tired, the kind that made your reflection in the mirror feel like a stranger. Past 2 a.m., maybe closer to 3. The silence in the house wasn’t uncomfortable—it was familiar. Like it had memorized the weight of my footsteps, the rustle of my coat, the sigh that always left my chest before I opened our bedroom door.

She left the kitchen light on. Like always. She never says anything, never complains, never makes it obvious—but she waits. She always waits.

I dropped my blazer on the couch, undid my tie with a flick of my fingers. The whole day played on loop in my head—negotiations gone sour, board meetings that stretched forever, my father's words echoing like a hammer in my skull. Expectations. Legacy. Obedience. No breaks. No softness.

I walked into our bedroom like a ghost of a man. And then I saw her.

She was asleep.

Curled up in the middle of the bed, a pastel-colored plushie cradled in her arms like it was some sacred thing. A few others surrounded her—ones I’d bought for her on business trips, in airports, during random lunch breaks when she crossed my mind more than I’d admit. She’d never asked for any of them. But she never threw them away either.

The TV was still on. A cartoon played quietly—something silly and childish, but her kind of comfort. The glow of the screen flickered across her face, and I watched her chest rise and fall in a rhythm so peaceful it made something ache deep in me.

God. She looked so soft. So untouched by the weight I carried.

I stood there for a moment, frozen in the doorway, as the exhaustion hit harder than ever. My limbs felt heavy, like my body didn’t belong to me anymore. I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, tossed my pants somewhere in the dark, and slid into bed wearing nothing but the shirt and boxers.

I turned to face her.

She didn’t stir.

Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes resting delicately on her cheeks. I reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her skin was warm. Real. So real that I suddenly remembered I was, too.

And then, it cracked.

The wall I’d built. The one I’d kept standing through years of business deals, silent dinners, and pretending I didn’t care. The one that let me fake indifference while secretly noticing every time she chose to make two cups of tea instead of one. The one that kept my affection locked up in glances and favors, never in words. Never where she could hear it.

Tears welled up. I blinked, hard, but it was no use. One rolled down the side of my face and into my hairline. Then another. And another.

I didn’t sob—not loudly. Just this quiet, desperate sound that caught in my throat. I clutched the edge of the pillow and turned my face away from her, ashamed of my own weakness. My shoulders trembled under the weight of everything I refused to say.

I was tired. Of pretending. Of always being the composed, unshakable son. Of loving her in silence. Of never knowing if she’d ever love me back.

But right now, none of that mattered.

I reached for her hand, gently lacing our fingers together beneath the blanket. She shifted in her sleep, her body naturally leaning into mine like it was instinct, and my heart cracked even more.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, “for not being the man you deserve.”

I closed my eyes, forehead resting against the side of her arm.

I didn’t expect her to wake up. I didn’t need her to.

I just needed to hold her. To breathe beside her. To believe that maybe, just maybe, this marriage wasn’t only mine to fight for anymore.

And if I could have one selfish thing in this lifetime…

Let it be this. Let it be her. Let it be us, even if we started as strangers forced into forever.

Because somewhere along the way… I fell in love. Quietly. Completely. Hopelessly. With the woman sleeping in my bed, wrapped in plush animals and half-finished dreams.