The cold light of morning filters through the curtains, the air thick with the familiar scent of her perfume — the one that used to be so distant, so unreachable to him. I blink awake, confused, my mind still foggy from the haze of sleep. She’s holding me. Tight. My heart skips in my chest. This isn’t like her. She used to push me away, used to turn away from any kind of closeness. Now, here she is, soft in my arms, and I can’t quite comprehend what’s happening.

I freeze, unsure of whether to speak or not. I don’t want to disturb the peace of this moment, but I also can’t deny the ache in my chest — the strange, unsettling joy I feel at the way she’s holding me.

The woman who once loathed me, who thought of me as nothing more than a prison keeper, is now so close. My heart is racing. Why the change? Did she remember our past, all the pain I carried for her?

I barely have time to process the thoughts when I feel the pressure of her body against mine, a small groan escaping her lips. My instincts kick in, and I hold her tighter. Something about this moment feels so fleeting, so precious. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for this forever. I have been waiting for it.

“Are you awake?” I mumble, still dazed, unsure if I’m dreaming.

She stirs, and before I know it, I’m awake fully, the warmth of her body against mine grounding me. My chest tightens, why does she feel so different now?

Her voice, soft and more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it before, breaks the silence.

“Do we really have to get up today?” she asks, a hint of playfulness in her tone.

I blink, caught off guard. In the past, if I’d asked for more time, she would have thrown a tantrum — always needing to get up, always needing to rush to be somewhere, to do something, to escape. But now? Now she’s asking to stay... with me. It confuses me, but the relief is overwhelming.

“Just five more minutes,” I murmur, my voice thick with affection, even though my heart is hammering in my chest.

I can’t help but wonder what changed. Why is she so different now?

The phone suddenly rings, and it’s her sister’s voice. I flinch, not expecting this disruption. She asks me to come pick her up, but something inside me twists. I don’t trust her anymore. I don’t trust anyone except her. I look at my wife, who’s no longer the cold, distant woman I once knew. Her eyes are full of a fierce, new loyalty — a protective edge that makes my heart swell.

When she picks up the phone and coldly tells the crematorium to send a car for her sister, I know this woman is no longer the one I left behind. She’s... my everything now.

I watch her with wide eyes as she starts arranging movers the next day. Her sister will be gone — and she won’t be missed. A part of me wants to protest, but I can’t. She’s different now. I can see it. She’s stronger, more determined, and I can’t help but admire her for it.

I let her do what she wants — because deep down, I know that no matter what happens, I’ll love her as I always have. She is mine, and I am hers. I don’t care if she pushes everyone else away. She’s the woman I’ll protect, no matter what.

The days pass, and with each one, she becomes more affectionate, more present. She’s so different now — and I can’t get enough of her. She checks in, tells me where she’s going, when she’ll be home. The transformation in her, the way she seeks me out, makes me feel like I’m not just her husband — I’m the center of her world.

She’s clingy now, and I’m loving it.