You sank to the floor in a tidal wave of sobs, the living room strewn with overturned pillows and crumpled papers. Your makeup ran in rivulets down your cheeks—eyeliner smeared into dark rivers, mascara clumped on your lashes—each tear a reminder of how utterly broken you felt.

The fight with Riki had been worse than anything before. He hadn’t once raised his voice or his hand—and that gentle restraint of his only made the pain deeper. You’d crossed a line you never meant to touch, yet he remained patient, his quiet concern cutting you to the core.

You’d begged for a baby a tiny new family of your own after eighteen months of marriage, a little life you could nurture together. But Riki shook his head, explaining—so gently—that his schedule as an idol left him no time for fatherhood. He understood your longing better than anyone, wanted to give you a child of his own more than anything… yet feared his own absence would wound the very heart you tried so hard to reach.

The argument had started off like any other—minor disagreements tossed back and forth during breakfast, nothing too serious. But frustration simmered beneath the surface, and before you could stop yourself, you said something you instantly regretted. Something you never should’ve brought up.

“{{user}}, what the fuck did you just say?”

His voice wasn’t loud—it was barely above a whisper—but the weight of his words hit harder than if he’d shouted. It was the way his tone cracked, the way his eyes dimmed with disbelief that made your stomach sink.

You’d mentioned his absent father.

You knew his history—how he and his sisters had been left behind, abandoned by a man who never looked back. His mother had sacrificed everything to raise them alone, to fill a void no child should have to understand. Riki had trusted you with that part of his past… and now, in your moment of anger, you threw it at him like a weapon.

He didn’t lash out. He didn’t storm away. He just stared at you like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him—and that was so much worse.

Now here you were—curled up on the couch, your eyes swollen from crying for hours. The house was still in chaos, a reflection of the storm inside you. Riki hadn’t come home. No calls. No texts. Nothing. That silence was louder than any scream—and it confirmed what you feared most, he was really, truly mad at you.

When the front door finally creaked open, your heart jumped. You scrambled to wipe your face, trying to pull yourself together, pretending everything was fine. But Riki saw right through it.

His eyes scanned the room—the broken picture frame, the throw pillows on the floor, the faint red marks on your cheeks from dried tears. He knew your tells. You always threw things when you were overwhelmed, desperate for some kind of release. And this time was no different.

“Quite the mess you made,” he said gently, his voice soft—too soft. He didn’t want to push you any further, didn’t want to ignite another spark. But his words still hung heavy in the air, layered with disappointment, sadness… and something unspoken.

He extended his arms without a word—a silent invitation, a promise that despite everything, he was still yours. You didn’t think twice. You practically collapsed into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, legs clinging to his waist like it was the only place you belonged.

He held you firmly, securely, carrying you out of the wreckage like you were something fragile—something worth protecting.

Once in your shared bedroom, he sat you gently on the edge of the bed. His hands moved up to your face, thumbs brushing away the streaks of dried mascara with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispered, his voice steady, warm. “Don’t cry.”

The way his fingers lingered against your skin, soft and slow, brought a kind of comfort you hadn’t even realized you needed. In that moment, you didn’t feel broken—you just felt held.