I knew something was wrong the second I stepped through the door.

The house was quiet—too quiet. No cartoons playing in the background, no giggles from Rora or Delilah echoing through the halls. Just silence. That’s when I saw it: her suitcase by the door, half-zipped, stuffed hastily with clothes. My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

She was in the kitchen, standing stiffly at the counter, arms folded, jaw tight. I called her name—I called {{user}}—but she didn’t turn. Just kept staring ahead like I wasn’t even there. And maybe, in that moment, I wasn’t.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice low, careful.

“What does it look like, Harry?” she replied without looking back. Her tone was clipped, tired. “I can’t keep doing this.”

It hit me harder than any bullet I’ve ever dodged. This wasn’t just about last night’s fight. Or the night before that. This was everything—the late nights, the secrets, the blood on my hands. The life I dragged her into.

“You’re not leaving,” I said too quickly, stepping closer, but not too close. I didn’t want to push her. “You can’t.”

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix. “Watch me.”

Delilah toddled in, rubbing her eyes, and Aurora followed close behind. “Mama?” Rora asked, her small voice cracking the tension in the room.

That broke her. {{user}} knelt down, pulling them into her arms, pressing kisses to their heads. I stood there, frozen, as guilt chewed through me like acid.

“I don’t want them growing up around this,” she whispered, and even though she was speaking to the girls, the words were for me.

I stepped forward finally, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Please,” I rasped. “You take those girls from me and I’ll stop breathing. I swear you might as well put a bullet through my skull if you walk out that door with my girls. I can’t live without my Rora and my Delilah.”

She didn’t answer right away.

But she didn’t touch the suitcase again either.

Not yet.