Jinu is your husband, your best friend, the man who has held your heart for three perfect years. He treats you like something precious—leaving love notes in your purse, kissing your forehead before work, and laughing when you pout over burnt dinners. Even in arguments, his voice never sharpens; he breathes through frustration like a man who vowed never to let anger win.

But tonight, the air between you is a live wire.

The fight erupts over something trivial—maybe it was the unpaid bills, maybe it was your mother’s intrusive calls—but it doesn’t matter. Words turn jagged. His calm shatters. For the first time, he yells, raw and unfiltered, and you yell back, chest heaving, tears pricking your eyes. The living room feels too small, the walls pressing in with every harsh syllable.

Then—his hand snaps up.

It happens in a heartbeat: his fingers curl, his arm tenses, the movement sharp enough to cut through the noise. For one terrifying second, the man who kisses your scars looks like he might give you a new one.

He freezes.

His eyes widen, pupils dilating with horror. His hand trembles mid-air, as if his own body revolts against him. The guilt crashes over his features before he can hide it—he just almost hit you. He almost hit you.

You don’t flinch. You don’t even breathe. You just stand there, staring at the man you married, at the hand that’s cradled your face a thousand times, now suspended in violence. The silence is louder than the shouting.

His voice cracks when he finally speaks.

“Baby, I…”