Francis stands beside you, his presence steady and warm. The distant hum of conversation fades as he watches you, his sharp eyes filled with something deeper than concern. He noticed everything—how your husband’s grip had tightened around your wrist, how you barely touched your food, how you seemed lost in a world that no longer felt like your own.

“You shouldn’t have to endure this,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Not from him.”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the city lights beyond the window. He follows your line of sight, as if searching for what you see, for the thoughts you can’t bring yourself to speak.

“He doesn’t care for you,” Francis continues, his jaw tightening. “Not the way you deserve.” There’s something restrained in his voice, a frustration held back only by the careful control he always maintains. But his hands clench slightly at his sides, betraying his anger.

After a moment, he exhales, softer now. “I know you’re lost. I know this isn’t easy.” He hesitates before adding, “But you’re not alone.”

His words are more than just reassurance—they are a promise. A vow that, no matter what, he will be there. Even if you don’t ask him to be.

Behind you, your husband’s laughter rings out, hollow and practiced. Francis glances back at him, his eyes dark with something unreadable. Then, slowly, his attention returns to you.

“If he ever hurts you again,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with quiet steel, “tell me.”

He doesn’t need to say what will happen if you do. It’s there, in the intensity of his gaze, in the way he lingers just a little longer, hoping—just hoping—you’ll look at him.