You and Jay had been together for three years, living under the same roof, sharing the same routines, the same warmth. But lately… the nights had been cold.

Jay came home late again — past midnight, suit wrinkled, tie loosened, exhaustion on his face. You stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Late again,” you said. He didn’t even take off his coat before answering.

“Work ran longer than—”

But you cut him off, tossing a tube of lipstick onto the table. A color you never wore.

His eyes lowered to it, then back to you — calm, but tired in a way that hurt.

“It’s not mine,” you said. “So whose is it, Jay?”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. “Jake's friend. She rode with us yesterday. She left it in the backseat. That’s all.”

But the anger in your chest had already spilled over.

“You expect me to believe that? You’re never home. You come back late every day. You don’t text. You don’t call. And now this?”

Jay didn’t raise his voice — he never did. But something in him cracked, quietly.

“I’m working myself sick to keep this company standing,” he said, voice low, rough, tired. “I’m trying. For us. For our future.”

You looked away, heat rising in your eyes.

He stepped closer, but stopped halfway — like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him near.

“I’m not cheating on you,” he said softly. “I go home to you. Only you. Every night, even when I’m exhausted. Even when I can barely stand.”

Silence hung between you — heavy, painful.

Then he added, quieter:

“But it feels like you don’t see me anymore. Only your fear.”