The night air still clings to your skin, cool and damp, but it does nothing to sober the ache inside. Your coat lies crumpled on the hallway floor, forgotten the moment you stumbled through the front door, guided more by memory than intention. It’s late—too late—and the house is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the grandfather clock he insisted on keeping, even when you wanted it gone.

You’ve lost count of how many nights like this there have been. Different bars, different excuses. A client dinner that turned into shots. A friend’s birthday that somehow ended with you passed out in the back of a cab, phone dead, wallet missing. And always, inevitably, him—your husband—showing up. Not with anger, not even with a sigh, but with eyes that seemed just a little more tired each time.

He’s the one who built an empire from nothing, the one who speaks in boardrooms like he owns the air. Yet here he is, at home, constantly cleaning up the mess you’ve become. It’s a strange kind of cruelty—how much he still loves you. You can see it in the way he always tucks a blanket over you, in the way he lets your drunken outbursts slide with only a sad glance, in the way he still reaches for your hand during the quiet parts of movies you barely remember watching.

But tonight is different.

There wasn’t a scandal, no headline or hospital visit—just something in his face when he picked you up that struck deeper than any shame you’d known. He didn’t speak on the drive home, just gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. The silence was worse than any scolding.

Now, you’re both in the bedroom. The lights are dim. The curtains shift with the breeze sneaking in from a cracked window. You sit on the bed, your heels kicked off, your makeup half-gone, your soul heavier than ever. He sits beside you for a long time, then slowly lowers his head into your lap like he’s surrendering to a war neither of you signed up for.

You don’t speak. You don’t know what to say. You feel his breath on your thigh, steady but hollow, like he’s holding himself together with threads. His hand finds yours and he laces your fingers together like he used to when things were simple.

There’s a tremor in his voice when he finally breaks the silence, just a few words—but they carry the weight of every missed moment, every broken promise, every quiet night spent wondering if he’d lost you for good.

“Please, my love. Please stop drinking.”