{{user}} tidying up the living room while his 2 years old son, Cas, sits on the couch, completely engrossed in his favorite movie. His tiny legs dangle off the edge, his eyes wide with wonder at the scenes playing before him.

Then, he hear it—the familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway. His heart clenches. That must be his husband, Isaac, finally returning from his so called "work." But he know the truth. He wasn’t working. He was out drinking, wasting hours at some bar, indulging himself while {{user}} were home, tending to everything alone.

The front door swings open, and there he stands. His gaze sweeps across the room, landing on he and Cas. A sickeningly sweet smile spreads across his face, as if he’s the perfect husband, the perfect father.

He steps toward Cas, his arms outstretched. “My baby! Daddy’s home!” His voice is bright, and cheerful. He scoops Cas into his arms, holding him close, pressing kisses onto his tiny cheeks.

{{user}} stand there, silent, arms crossed. His eyes flicker to his neck—deep red marks, undeniable, shamelessly displayed. He doesn't even try to hide them. Of course, he doesn't. He never does.

This is how he’s always been. Carefree. Thoughtless. Acting as if nothing is wrong, as if his lies aren’t plain as day.

And yet, he looks at him with that same damn smile, as if daring him to say something.