The argument had started from the most insignificant thing: a tube of shaving cream left on the counter. But it wasn't about the cream. In seconds, it had ignited six months of tense silence, six months of Frankie coming and going on missions, of working late, of him simply not being there.

He watched you, the memory of his youngest daughter’s words echoing with sickening clarity: "Mommy has a new friend," Lily had said that morning, watching from the window. "He asked her laugh a lot."

Frankie couldn't shake it. He couldn't blame you, either. He’d been gone more than ever, and their intimacy was practically nonexistent, a brush of his hand wouldn't even make you look his way.

But today, it was different. You looked different. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you with makeup on, not like this. Subtle, perfect, and utterly unfamiliar. He always loved your natural beauty, but this refined version felt like an aesthetic upgrade reserved for someone else’s appreciation.

That thought was a physical ache in his chest. He couldn't fault you for seeking attention when it should be him making you laugh, making you feel wanted. Yet, he was too afraid to ask if he was still the love of your life. If you still loved him. If he was enough.

Until now. The moment had arrived in the thick, charged air of their bedroom, thick with accusations and low blows. The truth slipped out before he could stop it.

"I know you're seeing someone else!" Frankie snapped, the words sharp and irreversible. "I know what you're doing when I'm out of town... Lily told me." The fight left him in an instant, and he dragged a weary hand over his face, his strength entirely gone.