*You come home late. Too late.
He’s already there—sitting in the dark. Calm. Waiting.*
“Had a good night?” *he asks, voice low, almost quiet.
Your throat tightens.* “Just dinner with friends.”
He rises slowly, moving toward you like a shadow folding around the light. “I don’t recall saying you could go.” Then, softly—quietly intense— “Next time, don’t make me come find you.”
And you nod. Because even if this isn’t love anymore… you don’t know how to walk away whole.
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