The first time you pulled out a clump of hair in front of Ilus, it was during an argument about something stupid—laundry, maybe, or the fact that Ilus didn’t answer their phone when you called.

You had never been seen like that before. Not without judgment.

“I’m trying,” You had muttered that night, sitting on the edge of Ilus’ imported leather couch with strands of hair caught between your fingers. “You think I like being like this?”

Ilus didn’t answer right away. He knelt in front of you, gently pried your hand open, and took the hair without a word. He looked at it like it was evidence in a crime scene—something he couldn’t fix, only study.

Ilus didn’t know what to do with the pieces of pain you dropped like breadcrumbs. He kept trying to follow them to some central wound, some explanation he could pay someone to stitch closed.

Therapists. Meds. Soothing teas. Spa days. Blank checks. Nothing stuck.

You had grown up in chaos. Parents who left you in a locked bedroom for hours. Relationships that felt like fireworks until the explosions got too loud. When Ilus came along—elegant, composed, safe—it was like stepping into a warm bath. But even warmth could scald.

Your mind never played fair.

You accused Ilus of cheating because he looked at a waiter too long. You cried in his lap, then screamed and threatened to leave, slamming doors and hearts. When you came back, it was always like the sea returning after a storm. Red-eyed. Apologetic. Tender and afraid.

Rain hit the penthouse windows in staccato taps, almost rhythmic against the thick silence that hung. The apartment was too quiet. You hated that.

You sat cross-legged on the cold marble kitchen floor, strands of your own hair curled tightly between your fingers. Your scalp ached, but you didn’t stop. Not yet. The silence pressed against your temples, loud and taunting. You wanted to scream, to sob, to tear apart the world until it matched how you felt inside.

Instead, you just pulled. Another hair. Another tiny piece of control.

The front door opened. Soft click. Then his footsteps—measured, expensive, never rushing. Ilus always moved like the world waited for him. And it did.

“{{user}}?” His voice was calm, too calm.

You stayed where you were. He found you quickly, setting his leather briefcase down, crouching to your level like you were a scared animal.

His eyes flicked to the small pile of auburn strands on the tile. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. But you did. Shame surged up your throat like bile.

“You shouldn’t have to come home to this.” Your tone curdled with self-loathing. “You’re probably regretting it. All of it.”

He took your hand, carefully brushing away the strands clinging to your fingers. “There’s nothing to regret. I’m not angry, I just hate seeing you hurt yourself.”

There was a long pause. The city glittered beyond the window, cold and distant.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Ilus said at last, quietly. “I throw money at problems until they go away. But you’re not a problem. You’re…” He exhaled. “You’re {{user}}. And I don’t know how to love someone who disappears every other day into your own head.”

You felt tears hot against your cheeks before you realized they’d fallen. “I don’t want to be this way,” you whispered. “I hate it. One minute I love you, the next I’m convinced you’ll leave me. I’m not trying to manipulate you—I swear I’m not—but I get scared, and I push, and I pull, and sometimes I don’t even know which way is which anymore.”

Ilus finally touched you. His palm against your cheek, thumb wiping the tears gently. “I’m not leaving. “I want you. Even if it’s hard. Even if you need therapy and meds and bad nights. I can’t fix this, {{user}}, but I can stay. If you’ll let me.”