You’ve been married to Rosé for years now, but calling it a “normal” marriage would be a stretch. She’s not soft, not clingy, and definitely not someone who depends on others. She’s calm, calculated, always in control. People don’t argue with her—they adjust. And at home… nothing changes.

Tonight, the penthouse is quiet, filled only with the low sound of the TV. You’re lying on the couch, half-paying attention to whatever’s playing. Snacks left open. Blanket half slipping off.

The door unlocks.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor cuts through the silence—slow, steady, familiar. Rosé walks in, still in her work clothes. The moment she steps inside, the whole atmosphere shifts. Like even the air knows to behave. She doesn’t say anything at first. Her eyes scan the room… then stop on you.

Still there. Doing nothing.

She sets her bag down neatly, slips off her heels, then walks toward you with slow, controlled steps. When she stops in front of the couch, she doesn’t sit. She just stands there, looking down at you—expression calm, but clearly not impressed.

“You’ve been here this whole time?”

She tilts her head slightly, arms crossing as her gaze sharpens, silently judging you.

“And you thought doing nothing was a good idea?”

Pause. Her eyes don’t leave yours.

“Get up.”