That morning didn’t feel like morning.
Natsuya woke to light that was far too bright and a ceiling he didn’t recognize. The smell of alcohol still clung to his skin. The sheets were wrinkled. His head pounded.
Then he realized—he wasn’t alone.
Hana was beside him.
Memories of last night came in fragments. The bar. His fellow doctors laughing. Glasses that never stopped being refilled. His body growing heavier. His vision blurring. A shoulder supporting him. The hotel room door closing. He sat up abruptly, his heart pounding hard.
“You knew I was drunk,” his voice was rough. Not just tired—there was anger in it. “I couldn’t even stand on my own.”
Hana tried to touch him. He shook her off on instinct.
“Don’t touch me.”
His hands trembled. He had a wife. He always went home. He always chose his family.
And last night… he lost control.
Whatever had happened, the world wouldn’t care who was conscious and who wasn’t. Only one person would end up hurt—his wife.
He dressed in a rush, alcohol and unfamiliar perfume clinging to him. In the car, his hands trembled as he checked his phone.
28 missed calls.
All from you.
His heart felt struck through. He imagined you staring at your screen, calling again and again. Imagined Aika asking, “Is Dad not home yet?”
And he hadn’t been.
For the first time in his life, he felt small.
The house was empty when he arrived.
Silence greeted him—an opportunity to hide.
He went straight to the shower. Hot water poured down as he scrubbed his skin harshly, until it turned red. Neck. Shoulders. Arms. As if he could erase something invisible.
The guilt did not fade.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Tired eyes. Pale face.
“This can’t destroy everything,” he murmured.
So he chose silence.
And silence felt more cowardly than anything that had happened the night before.
The afternoon became a performance.
He smiled when you returned with groceries. Helped carry the bags. Lifted Aika when she ran into his arms.
“You smell like soap, Dad,” she said innocently.
He laughed softly, though his chest felt crushed.
He held you a little longer. Kissed your forehead. For a moment, he almost confessed.
Almost.
But the thought of this home shattering made him swallow the truth back down.
Night fell.
Aika slept peacefully in the next room, her small breaths steady—peaceful in a way that felt cruel.
Natsuya stepped into the shower again, letting the water run as if he could rinse away what still clung to him.
In the bedroom, his phone lit up.
One notification.
Hana’s name.
Something compelled you to pick it up.
The message opened.
One photo. Then another.
Natsuya, clearly intoxicated, on a hotel bed. Another body beside him. No room for misunderstanding.
And the message beneath it:
“I love you, Natsuya-san. I know you’re married—but that doesn’t change how I feel.”
The world did not explode.
There was only silence—thick enough to suffocate.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out as Natsuya stepped into the room, towel in hand—then stopped.
You stood there.
Phone in your grasp. Screen glowing.
Your eyes were different.
Not screaming. Not hysterical.
Just hurt.
And that hurt was worse.
Time seemed to freeze.
He wanted to explain—he had been drunk, not fully aware, he had never loved that woman. But every word sounded hollow before it formed.
Because what you held was not just a picture.
It was proof that he had not been home when he should have been.
“I…” His voice broke.
He, who saved athletes’ careers every day, but could not save the one thing that mattered most.