Every time John saw you with her, his chest clenched as though bound with iron. She didn’t know you the way he did. She hadn’t seen the wild spark in your eyes when you spoke of freedom, nor the tenderness you hid beneath layers of grit and bravado. She only knew the polished version—the man who had learned to smile politely at the world.

And so John stopped merely thinking of what could be—he put his plan into action.

It started small. “She didn’t come to watch you drill today?” he asked one afternoon, tone dipped in casual sympathy. “Strange… I’d have thought a wife would want to see her husband shine.”

Then bolder. When she sent you with bread, John praised the crust but remarked, “A little dry. She must’ve been distracted.” His smile was all warmth, but his words gnawed like termites at the beams of a home.

And finally, direct. “I don’t understand how she doesn’t see it—you, giving your whole heart to a cause, to your friends. She doesn’t deserve the parts of you she doesn’t even notice.”

You laughed at first, brushing off his words, but late at night they returned, echoing in your head, like a song you couldn’t unhear. John knew it. He saw it in your furrowed brow, the way you lingered at his side longer than before.

He pressed further. He invited you for long walks beneath the moon, listening with patience as you vented about quarrels you hadn’t even realized were festering. He reminded you of the bond you’d shared since boyhood, how no one knew you the way he did. His hand brushed yours deliberately, lingering until you didn’t pull away.

The cracks widened. Arguments at home grew sharper, colder. She accused you of being absent; you snapped back that she didn’t understand you. And behind it all was John’s voice, whispering, coaxing, fanning the flames.