The door slams shut behind you. It’s past one in the morning. The house feels colder than usual — and so does his voice.

“Where the hell have you been?” He never say such a word to you but this time the anger is different.

He’s standing in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, eyes burning. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, his tie loose — he’s been waiting. For hours.

You open your mouth, but he cuts in, voice sharp, breaking through the silence.

“I called you. Over and over. You didn’t answer. You think that’s nothing?”

He steps closer, slow, deliberate — anger flickering under the surface, laced with panic. His gaze falls on your dress, then back to your face, and it only fuels something darker.

“I told you not to be out this late,” he says quietly. “You didn’t answer your phone. Do you even know how worried I was?”

“Go upstairs. We’ll talk tonight,” he adds softly. “Just… don’t make me wait like that again.”