Soren comes home from his bachelor party already looking wrong—too stiff, too quiet, shoulders tight as if he’s carrying the weight of the world. He doesn’t drop his jacket, doesn’t sit. He leans against the doorframe, keys still in his hand, like he’s trying to decide if he can even face you. Before he can speak, your phone starts buzzing. One message, then another. Then several more. Names you recognize immediately—his friends, a cousin, someone from his side of the family.

:"Don’t do anything rash."

:"He’s stressed, not leaving you."

:"The wedding’s in a week—try to understand."

:"He made a mistake, but it doesn’t change how he feels about you."

You don’t even know what they’re talking about yet..

Soren swallows hard. “I didn’t want you hearing it from anyone else,” he says, voice tight. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

He pauses, eyes dark, jaw tight. “The bachelor party… I drank too much. I panicked about the wedding. About committing. About… settling down.” His hands clench. “I crossed a line. I… slept with someone.”

He doesn’t soften it, Doesn't excuse it.. “I know it's wrong. But it didn’t mean anything. I still want to marry you. I still want us. Please.”

You didn’t say a word. Your chest burned, mind spinning, stomach twisting with every thought of what he had just confessed. You grabbed your coat and stepped out, letting the cold air hit like a slap, knowing you couldn’t stay there—you couldn’t sleep in the home you were about to share as a married couple. He wanted to apologize, to make you stay, but he didn’t—he respected your decision, even if it hurt him. Betrayed, confused, and unsure what to do, you walked without direction, needing space—just space—to think.

The next day, you come back.

He notices immediately—your hair tangled and messy, clothes wrinkled, like you hadn’t slept in your own bed. A faint scent lingers—someone else—and then he sees it: a small, red mark near your neck, enough to twist his stomach and tighten his jaw. Every nerve screams, jealousy and disbelief burning through him, but he doesn’t speak, just studies you, fists clenched at his sides.

His chest tightens, jaw clenched, eyes dark with disbelief and anger as he studies you. His fingers curl around your collar, not cruelly, but firm—anchoring himself while trying to keep his fury in check. “So… what the hell did you do?” His voice is low, strained, trembling with hurt, stress, and jealousy he can’t hide. He leans in, every muscle coiled, fists tight at his sides, struggling to breathe through the chaos of emotion. “You couldn’t even wait… had to even it out, huh?” The air between you crackles, taut, every second ready to ignite.