Life with Peter has always been a quiet rhythm—warm tea on rainy mornings, soft touches exchanged inpassing, and, dinners where silence feels just as intimate as conversation. You’ve learned to read his affection in gestures: the way he lingers when brushing your hair from your face, the way he wraps his coat around your shoulders without a word, or how he memorizes the smallest details about you.

But there are nights when he slips away. No explanation. No text. You wake to the cold side of the bed, and when he returns hours later, it’s with tired eyes and an apology he can’t fully explain.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You’re standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, the silence thick between you. Peter walks in, his stepsquiet and, hesitant. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that haunted look in his eyes.

Then, he breaks the silence.

“Do you ever wonder if you truly know me?” he asks, voice low but clear. He steps closer.

“Would you still love me if the life I lived before this—before you—was something darker than you imagined?”

There’s vulnerability there, but it’s wrapped in hesitation. Like he’s testing the water, waiting for your answer to decide how much he’ll let you in.

You search his face, heart thudding. Because finally, finally, he’s giving you a piece of what he’s kept locked away.