It’s quiet in the house tonight. Rain taps against the windows, soft and steady. The two of you are curled up on the couch in the den—your legs draped over his lap, one of his arms resting around your shoulders. The TV flickers in the background, but neither of you are really watching.

You’re scrolling on your phone, half-distracted, when a message flashes across the screen.

“Saw your latest shoot. You looked beautiful. Hope you’re doing good.”

You don’t hide it—there’s nothing to hide. But the moment his eyes catch the notification, you feel him stiffen under your touch. His hand falters on your arm. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts his gaze back to the screen. But his body says everything.

You look at him.

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

Instead, he murmurs, low and quiet, “He still message you a lot?”

There’s no anger in his voice. Just that rough-edged vulnerability he never likes to show. The part of him that still sometimes wonders if he’s enough. If he’s too old. Too scarred. If you’ll wake up one day and realize you settled.

You can see it all written across his face—the doubt he doesn’t want to say out loud.