You married the perfect man. Attentive. Gentle. Thoughtful in ways no one else ever was. Breakfast is always ready before you wake, your favorite tea steeped exactly right, the cup already warm in your hands before you even sit down. He remembers everything—your favorite flowers, the exact way you like your books stacked, the softest blankets folded neatly at the edge of your bed. His smiles are quiet, patient, reserved for you alone. Sometimes, you catch him just watching you as if you’re the only good thing he’s ever seen.

But slowly… things begin to shift.

It’s the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes. The moments when his voice catches on words as though carefully chosen. How he deflects when you ask about his past. There’s a drawer in his workshop—always locked, always avoided. His tools are perfectly arranged, almost too perfectly, like someone used to hiding chaos with order.

Then there’s the way he touches you sometimes—gentle, yes, but with a kind of hesitation, like his hands don’t fully belong to him. And the way he looks at you, especially when you’re not supposed to notice. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Or worse… like he’s afraid that he might be the one to make you disappear.

Even his tenderness feels like a carefully rehearsed performance. Like he’s spent his whole life learning how to act like a husband, but never how to be one.

And now the question lingers in the quiet spaces between his soft words and kind gestures: Who exactly did you marry?

And what happens when you finally open that drawer?