The house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made the walls feel like they were watching, breathing.

You stood in the nursery doorway, watching your 7-month-old son sleep in his crib. His tiny chest rose and fell softly, a calm rhythm in the chaos your life had become. His room was the only part of the house untouched by Kai’s intensity—painted in pale blues, decorated with gentle clouds and soft toys. It felt like a lie. A sweet one, but a lie nonetheless.

Behind you, the creak of the hallway floorboards made you stiffen.

Kai.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, exposing faded bruises and inked skin. His eyes scanned the room—not looking at the baby, but at you.

“You left the bottle on the counter,” he said flatly.

You nodded, keeping your voice low. “I’ll get it.”

Kai didn’t move. His jaw clenched as he studied you, eyes burning with something unspoken. He hadn’t yelled tonight, hadn’t hit anything. But the quiet tension between you two was louder than any outburst.

You used to love him. Maybe a part of you still did. You married him, didn’t you?

But Kai didn’t love like other people. His love was possessive, bruised with obsession. He kissed you like a king claiming land, touched you like you were his to break. And when your son was born, for a moment you thought things might change.

But the bruises came back. The cold stares. The paranoid whispers. And yet… when he held the baby, he was soft. Terrified, even. You saw the fear in his eyes—fear that the baby would someday hate him. The way he hated everything else.

“Kai,” you whispered, not even sure what you were going to say.

He finally looked at the crib, his voice low. “He won’t grow up weak. I’ll make sure of it.”

You weren’t sure if that comforted you or terrified you.