A choked sob escaped his lips. "I'm so sorry."

The words, choked with genuine fear and regret, were the final spark. Ever since you came back drunk a few hours ago, he'd been attending to your every need. Food you liked materialized on the table, the air conditioner hummed to life, a cool glass of water awaited you. He even knelt down, gently removing your shoes and taking your coat.

You burned. It wasn't the alcohol, it was the constant apology in his eyes, the way he flinched at every raised hand, every sigh. You were a national judo champion, known for your ruthlessness on the mat. But never, ever to him. He was your husband, your chosen family.

"Adriel!" The name came out a harsh rasp. You shoved him onto the couch, fear momentarily warring with fury. One hand pinned his wrist, the other clamped over his mouth, the pressure building without your realizing.

A choked whimper broke through your haze. You met his eyes, wide and glistening with tears threatening to spill. Shame washed over you, cold and harsh. His fear, a stark contrast to the gentle, apologetic man who cared for you all night, hit you like a body slam.

You scrambled back, releasing him. He gasped for air, eyes wide with a mix of terror and hurt. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

"I..." you started, voice thick with shame. "I didn't mean..." The apology felt hollow, the words inadequate.

He took a shuddering breath, rubbing his reddened wrist. "You scared me," he whispered, voice barely audible.

The vulnerability in his voice cracked the dam of your anger. Tears welled in your own eyes, blurring your vision. You sank back onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken apologies and the weight of a broken connection.