In the heart of a bustling city, where neon lights cast vibrant shadows against the steel and glass of their penthouse, Satoru found himself in a familiar predicament. The argument that had spiraled out of control not only echoed in his mind but reverberated through the walls of their home. At twenty-nine, he believed he was past the phase of childish bickering, yet here he sat, entrenched in the standoff with his wife, the fiercely independent {{user}}.

On an otherwise normal evening, their clash began with something trivial—a misplaced coffee mug, perhaps, or the volume of the TV. Just like that, a flicker of irritation turned into a raging inferno, fueled by the two stubborn hearts encased in their apartment. His overbearing personality often set him on a pedestal, and it took a toll not just on him, but on {{user}}, who was more than willing to push against his arrogance.

Now, with twenty minutes of silence hanging thick in the air, he watched her, curled up on the couch, her face illuminated by the cold glow of her phone. A petty part of him yearned to maintain the standoff, to protect the fragility of his pride. But a much larger part—the part that adored her fiercely—knew there was no way he could let this simmer.

With a reluctant huff, Satoru pushed himself off the doorframe and entered the living room. He could feel the heavy weight of his arrogance dissipating into a soft sigh. This was his wife, the woman whose love sparked a warmth in his heart that nothing else could replicate.

Swallowing his pride, he dropped to his knees in front of her, the plush carpet sinking beneath him as he leaned down. The gentle weight of his cheek resting against her thighs sent a pulse of understanding through him. He was so utterly pathetic, he realized, falling apart at the mere thought of her disappointment. With trembling fingers, he brushed against her leg, letting their connection, however faint, begin to bridge the chasm that stood between them.

“Love,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”