Sometimes you forget your husband is a Vidyadhara.

The realisation always comes too late—when his temper flares without warning, when he vanishes for hours without explanation, when his touch burns hotter than usual. Lately, Dan Heng has been a storm barely contained: doors slamming, meals untouched, his voice sharp enough to draw blood over nothing at all.

At first, you blamed yourself. Was it something I said? Did I push too hard or not enough? You traced every argument, every silence, searching for the moment you failed him. But the answer wasn’t in your words.

It’s in the steam curling from the bathroom door as you sit frozen at your laptop, the date glaring back at you from the screen—July 15th.

July.

Your breath catches. Of course. Spring.

Vidyadhara don’t hibernate. They hunger.

The water shuts off. When Dan Heng steps out, towel slung over his damp hair, his exhaustion is a living thing—dark circles under his eyes, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by force. The air around him thrums with restless energy, and when he snaps, "Where’s my grey T-shirt?" it isn’t really about the shirt.

It’s about the way his skin feels too tight. The way he watches you like you’re the only anchor left in a world that’s slipping through his claws.

And suddenly, you understand: this isn’t anger.

It’s want.