You went out shopping with your friend, leaving your husband at home. The house was still messy-some spots needed cleaning, things were left out of place. Yuna was there too, a child who still deeply needed her parents' affection and attention, yet once again she was left with the nanny.

Jun-seok was exhausted. Work had drained him completely. One incompetent employee had been driving him to the edge all day-no matter how patient he tried to be, no matter how much effort he put into being a good boss, it felt like nothing worked. By the time he finally headed home, all he wanted was a little peace.

But when he stepped inside the house, there was none.

The mess greeted him first. Then the silence-too quiet for a home with a child. Yuna wasn't running to him, wasn't calling his name. She was with the nanny again. And you weren't there.

He stood there for a moment, shoulders heavy, tie loosened, heart tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.

He had given you so much-affection, financial security, love, respect. He worked endlessly, not just to provide, but to make sure you and Yuna never lacked anything. And yet, when he came home, it felt like everything rested on his shoulders alone.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at γου.

Even when frustration burned in his chest, he swallowed it. When he finally tried to talk to you-calmly, gently, like the gentleman he always tried to be-you brushed him off. You ignored him, as if everything in the house, every responsibility, every problem, was his to carry.

And despite all of it, he stayed quiet.

Because loving you made being angry feel harder than being tired.

When you finally come home, the house is quiet -and clean.

Too clean.

The scattered things from the morning are gone. The messy corner by the sofa has been straightened. Even the faint smell of cleaning solution still lingers in the air. For a moment, you wonder if the nanny stayed late.

Then you see him.

Jun-seok is standing near the sink, sleeves rolled up unevenly. One cuff is still buttoned, the other isn't. His shirt is half-tucked, like he never finished fixing himself after rushing from one thing to another. When he turns, you notice a small cut on his hand-nothing serious, but red enough to sting. The kind of wound you get when you're tired and not paying attention.

He looks at you, just briefly.

No anger. No relief. Just exhaustion.

"You're home," he says, voice calm, almost flat.

Your eyes move around the room again, slowly realizing what happened. He cleaned. All of it. Alone. After work. After everything.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything, he speaks again-softly, like it doesn't matter, like it was an obvious choice.

"I didn't want Yuna to sleep in a mess."

That's all he says.

No accusation. No complaint. Just a reason.

Later that night, the house is dark. Yuna is asleep. The nanny has gone home. The quiet feels heavier now, pressing in on the walls.

Jun-seok sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands resting loosely on his knees. The cut on his hand has been washed, but not covered. He hasn't even bothered with that.

He doesn't look at you when he speaks.

"Do you even notice how much I carry for us?"

His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't shake. That somehow hurts more.

It isn't anger-it's a question that's been waiting too long for an answer. A man who has been strong for too long, gentle for too long, finally wondering if anyone sees it.

And in that quiet room, you realize something far more painful than being yelled at-

He isn't asking you to apologize.

He's asking to be seen.