The house is unusually silent when Bangchan steps through the door, his brows furrowing at the absence of his wife’s familiar, cheerful hum.

He calls your name, voice steady yet edged with worry, his footsteps falling heavy on the quiet floors. When there’s no response, he takes the stairs two at a time, driven by a gut feeling he can’t shake.

In the bedroom, he finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes vacant as you gaze out the window. His chest tightens as his gaze falls on your long sleeves, carefully drawn down over your hands, concealing marks he knows are there.

Without a word, Bangchan crosses the room and kneels before you, slipping his hands over yours before gently tugging them free.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, a gentle warmth threading through his normally unyielding tone.

His thumb traces lightly over your wrist, a subtle, wordless acknowledgment of the scars that lie beneath.

“I’m here. Whatever you’re facing, you’re not facing it alone,” he assures, pulling you into a firm, protective embrace, as though he could shield you from the shadows within.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, a silent vow that he’s there—that he’ll always be there. He doesn’t press you for details, doesn’t demand answers; he simply holds you close, running his fingers gently through your hair.

“We’ll get through this,” he says gently, resting his chin atop your head. “Together.”