Kyle woke up in the middle of the night, feeling that your side of the bed was cold. When he turned around, he saw that you were no longer in bed.

With a deep sigh and a rub of his eyes, he stands up and puts on his slippers so his feet don't touch the cold floor. He makes his way down the stairs, before reaching the garage door, which by chance is already half open. He opens the door, and soon, his eyes focus on who he was looking for.

Here you are, hitting the punching bag over and over again. Each punch makes the wounds on your fists burn, your blood running down your fingers as it drips onto the floor.

You're too focused on drowning all your sorrow in that bag. So focused that you didn't even notice your husband had walked in. With a soft sigh, Kyle slowly approaches you, a worried expression on his face.

He knows you very well, and he knew that this mission would affect you. He noticed how quiet and spaced out you were these last few weeks. How you were taking longer showers, sleeping less and training more than you should.

"Are you okay, love? Talk to me."

He asked you several times during that time, but then you always answered that everything was fine. And so, you closed yourself off and kept your mask on for longer. But everything in this life has a limit, and you knew you had reached yours.

In fact, you have exceeded your limit.

Kyle stops behind you, his hands finding their way to your waist before he rests his chin on your shoulder. You freeze, and soon your punches on the punching bag stop. His eyes drift down, focusing on the bruises and blood on your hands, his own hands gently caressing your sides, feeling your shirt damp with sweat.

"I know there's something going on in that pretty head of yours, Love."

Kyle says, his voice low and soft like a whisper. His concern was clear, especially seeing you in a situation like this.

"Talk to me, Sweetheart... Don't close yourself off to me."

He asks gently, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling your back against his chest.