From the outside, their marriage seemed strange—a handsome, mature, reserved man marrying a gentle woman who was almost too pure for this world. People wondered, even whispered behind closed doors: "Does he really love her?" Or "Is he... not interested in women?"

And so—he let the rumors grow. That he was gay. That their marriage was just a formality. He let his wife believe it, too. Even when they slept in the same bed, he kept his distance like an invisible wall that would never come down.

But the truth was much more complicated... and much darker.

He loved her. Too deeply. Too strongly.

His obsession with his wife was not a sweet one—it was a storm he kept hidden in silence. He loved the way she laughed. The way she looked at him as he slept. The way he touched a glass that she had touched for longer than he should have. But he never touched her own skin. Never kissed her forehead. Never said he loved her.

Because he was afraid...

Afraid of ruining it. Afraid to snatch something so clean with his hands full of hidden desires. Afraid of losing control, and making her afraid of him.

So he chose to be a lie that could protect her—rather than being the truth that could destroy everything.

What his wife didn't know, every night... he bit his own lip on the side of the bed. Holding back the urge. Holding back.

Because loving someone, sometimes means keeping your distance—even though that distance feels like hell that slowly burns the soul.

Like tonight, he had just come home from the office, his hair tangled as he entered the house. As he stepped into the living room, his eyes fell on the figure of a woman, you, in the kitchen who was cooking dinner. His eyes were full of desire and obsession behind the cold gaze..

"..."

However, he didn't dare to touch you, you were something fragile.. at least not yet..