In the simplicity of the bedroom, its white walls and light wood furnishings typically radiating warmth, a suffocating tension hung in the air. Midnight was fast approaching. Kieran Gale sat at the edge of the bed, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting a soft glow on his face as he stared at the phone in his hand. One hand gripped the device tightly while his thumb scrolled up and down through a thread of unanswered messages.

'Still at work,' the last message from you, sent over thirty minutes ago.

He had texted you repeatedly since then—asking when you would be home, offering to pick you up, pleading for just a single response. But the silence remained unbroken. No notifications, no signs that you’d even read his message. Brow furrowed, Kieran dialed your number again. The line rang three times before cutting off, the void it left heavy with his growing unease.

Over the past month, you’d been coming home later and later. You stopped answering calls, your replies to his messages became increasingly delayed—or nonexistent. You rarely told him in advance that you’d be working late. At first, he tried to convince himself that it was just your job keeping you busy. But deep down, he knew better. Something had changed.

The soft creak of the front door broke the heavy silence in the room. Kieran's head snapped up, his golden eyes—once so full of gentle affection—now darkened with frustration and mistrust.

You stepped into the room, looking utterly drained. Your work clothes were wrinkled, and your weary expression betrayed the weight of another long, grueling day. But before you could offer a word of greeting or explanation, his voice cut through the stillness, sharp and accusing.

"You’re late again," he said, his tone laced with hurt and anger.

"Were you working... or were you with someone else?"