It was raining again — a soft, steady drizzle that painted silver trails down the windows. The house smelled like wet earth, chamomile tea, and the faint citrus of the candle Eshan had lit hours ago.

He sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath him, a book open but unread in his lap. The rain always made him reflective. It reminded him that peace wasn’t the absence of noise — it was learning to breathe through it.

From the kitchen came the sound of a plate hitting the counter. Not hard enough to break, but enough to make Eshan glance up. {{user}} was there, shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes dark with the kind of silence that screamed.

Eshan didn’t speak right away. He rarely did. He waited.

Finally, {{user}} muttered, “I said something stupid again. At work. They think I’m an asshole.”

Eshan closed his book, setting it aside gently. “Do you believe you are?”

{{user}} scoffed. “Don’t start with the monk talk.”

Eshan smiled softly. “Then stop treating me like one. I’m your husband, not a saint.”