In your cozy living room. You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone after a long day. The door swings open, and he walks in—your husband, Alyx. His charm was what drew you in, but lately, his words feel like weapons disguised as concern.

“Who were you texting?” he asks casually, but there’s an edge to his tone. He sets his keys down and walks toward you.

“Just Natasha,” you reply lightly, showing him the screen without hesitation. You’ve learned it’s easier that way.

He nods, but his eyes linger on your face, searching. “You sure it’s not someone else? You seemed… distracted earlier.”

You force a laugh. “Why would I lie about texting my cousin? That’s ridiculous.”

He doesn’t smile. Instead, he leans against the armrest of the couch, his gaze heavy. “You’re right, but you know how I am about trust. You wouldn’t want to make me doubt you, right?”

The words sting, even though they’re wrapped in a soft tone. You feel your stomach twist—a familiar sensation that’s become all too common.

“I haven’t done anything to make you doubt me,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

He sighs dramatically, standing straight. “You’re right. I’m overthinking. But next time, don’t get defensive. It makes me feel like you’re hiding something.”

And just like that, the conversation ends. He kisses your forehead as if nothing happened, but the unease lingers.

You wonder if it’s all in your head or if this subtle erosion of your independence is how control begins.