You and your husband, Reon, had the worst fight of your marriage that evening—sharp words, wounded pride, and too much left unsaid. By the time the argument burned itself out, exhaustion had replaced anger, but the distance between you felt wider than ever.

You grabbed a pillow and retreated to the guest room, closing the door more gently than you felt. With a quiet sigh, you sank onto the unfamiliar bed. The room was cold, silent, and wrong. No steady breathing beside you. No warmth. You hated how much you missed him already.

Sleep barely touched you.

At 2:30 a.m., a soft knock broke the silence.

Your heart jumped before you could stop it.

When you opened the door, Reon stood there. His hair was rumpled, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his expression tired but intent.

“I forgot something of mine in here,”

he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. Of course. He hadn’t come for you. You turned your back at him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Then take it and leave the room,”

you whispered, refusing to meet his gaze.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped inside and in one effortless motion, lifted you over his shoulder.

“Reon—!”

you gasped, startled.

“Found it,”

he murmured, his hand firm at your back.