1:35 a.m

The front door clicks open. Monoma steps inside, loosening his tie as he calls out casually, humming some unknown melody for you.

“Hmm...—"

He was entering quietly, careful, but the moment he sees you waiting in the living room, his smile falters for just a heartbeat before returning, carefully plastered on.

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him. And he knows.

He laughs softly—too softly, too nervous. “Honey!.. What’s with the look? Don’t tell me you’ve been glaring at the wall all night waiting for me. You’ll get wrinkles that way.” He sets down his keys, his hands a little too deliberate, as if buying himself time.

When you finally speak—when the words come out sharp, accusing—his entire body stiffens. He blinks, then forces a chuckle.

“What are you talking about, hun..? Hehe… You must be tired. Overthinking again, aren’t you?” He steps closer, arms spreading as if he can embrace the tension away. “You know I’d never—well, not to you.”

But his eyes don’t quite meet yours. He hides behind his grin, behind the practiced theatrics, yet there’s a flicker of panic just beneath it all. His voice wavers, quieter:

“…Who told you?”