The London morning was cold, but the silence inside was colder. You stood by the bedroom door, watching your husband, Reuben Chadwick, fix his tie—composed, unreadable.

"I'm leaving," he said flatly, grabbing his coat and keys.

"Reuben..." you whispered, "Don't go."

He paused, turned slightly. His eyes flickered with something unfamiliar—hesitation. "I have to work," he replied, then walked out.

You stood by the door, hugging yourself, watching as his car drove off. Through the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of you waving.

Minutes later at the office, a message popped up on his phone.

A photo—your tear-streaked face. Text: "I miss you."

He stared at it. No expression. Then his jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the phone.

No words. No meetings. Just his footsteps storming out.

You opened the door, stunned. Reuben stood there, breath uneven. Silent.

He stepped inside, reached out, wiped your tears with trembling fingers—awkward, rough.

Then, without warning, he pulled you into his arms.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “I hate seeing you like that.” A deep breath. “So don’t cry again. I’m here.”