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Happy Valentine (again).. pls enjoy this.. ehehe 🫶

btw I use Female MC for this one!! and this is a marriage au so it doesn't follow the canon story! I'm so sorry if I did yael dirty, I'll give him justice!! I'll eventually write a fluff one-shot in the future! :-:

And.. some warning before you read!! THIS IS IMPORTANT.

!!CW!/Content Warning!!

“Poisoning” / Non-consensual drugging

Obsessive and possessive romantic

“Unhealthy” relationship dynamics

Emotional manipulation within a marriage

Isolation from support systems

Psychological control and dependency

Yandere theme

I don't have a partner to celebrate this valentine so I just write

credit

by me!

“ He's My Man ”

Yael ( From Klein v.0.1) x F!MC

Summary:

After marrying Yael, you believe you’ve finally secured the future you fought so quietly for. The wedding felt like a victory—not just a celebration, but proof that he chose you.

But marriage doesn’t erase the world’s pull on him. Old connections resurface, responsibilities linger, and the same kindness that makes him lovable makes him vulnerable.

As the lines between devotion and possession begin to blur, you find yourself determined to protect what’s yours—gently, carefully, completely.

Because no one understands him like you do.

And no one ever will.

You thought after you two got married there won't be any obstacles that prevent you both to be together, especially after you saw Isabelle attended the wedding and it felt like you finally winning the silent war between you two when you saw the face she made when she watched you and yael exchange vows and then kissed as a husband and wife.

Doesn't that mean he's all yours? He's your man after all, nobody loves him like you do and nobody understands him like you do.

You two are destined to be together, a perfect couple that everyone always talks about and people envied you because you married him, saying you're lucky to have him but that is not true at all… He's the one who's lucky to have you in this marriage, who knows what will happen if you two didn't end up together.. Maybe that terror is still happening in another timeline.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The applause from that day still echoes in your head sometimes. Not because of the guest, but because of the way yael looked at you when he said his vow.

There had been no hesitation in his voice. No flicker of doubt. Just that soft steadiness that always made people trust him too easily. That same steadiness Isabelle used to linger around, the same warmth coworkers leaned toward like moths to light.

But that day, under the white arch and the weight of everyone’s gaze and expectations, that steadiness bent toward you.

You still remember how his fingers trembled when he slid the ring onto your hand—not enough for anyone else to notice, but still enough for you to notice.

And you remember how his breath caught when you stepped closer. How his eyes searched your face like he needed to memorize it, like he was afraid this moment might end if he blinked.

And the moment when you kissed him, the crowd disappeared entirely and eventually his hand found its way to your waist and he held on to you like he didn't want this moment to end.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The first months of marriage feel borrowed.

You learn this slowly, in the half-light of early mornings. Him still asleep beside you, face slack and unguarded. You study him like field notes. The way his brow knots even in dreaming. The small sound he makes when your elbow accidentally presses his chest. How his hand stays curled around your hip like muscle memory, like he trained himself to hold on and forgot to let go.

Then you think about how easily that arm could have belonged to someone else, in another life.

But it doesn’t, because it belongs here.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The days develop a rhythm. Work, home, work, home. You leave together, separate at the station, and reunite in the evening like migratory birds. His goodbye kisses are quick but his thumb always finds your wrist first, pressing there, as if to memorize your pulse.

You memorize the drag of his thumb across your pulse. You don't mention that your own grip lingers too, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve like it owes you something.

You wonder if he's also counting the days like you do.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

At night, he insists on cooking with you. He moves around the kitchen with careful familiarity, asking if you’re tired, if you want him to chop the vegetables instead, if the heat is too high.

Even when you tell him not to bother, that you can handle it, he still insists sometimes. He’ll gently nudge you out of the kitchen with that soft, stubborn smile of his, sleeves already rolled up before you can argue properly.

“It’s fine,” he says, almost amused. “You can rest. I’ll do it myself.”

And at night, when the apartment is dim and quiet, he moves around the kitchen alone—careful, steady, humming under his breath like he always used to. As if taking care of you is the easiest thing in the world.

As if it doesn’t cost him anything at all.

He adjusts himself so easily. For you. For his coworkers. For strangers who ask too much. He bends without complaint, reshaping the edges of himself to fit whatever space he’s standing in.

You lean against the doorway and watch him chop vegetables with slow, precise movements, shoulders relaxed despite the faint exhaustion you know is sitting beneath his skin.

’Who taught you to make yourself this small?’ you wonder quietly.

‘Who convinced you that this is what love looks like?’

After that, you begin paying closer attention to him.

Not all at once. Not consciously.

You start noticing the pauses before he answers someone’s request. The way he smiles even when he’s too tired. The way he never says no the first time.

You tell yourself you’re just being observant.

You don’t realize yet how much that observation will change you.

Or him.

Or what your marriage will slowly become.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Isabelle's name doesn't crash back in.

It slips. Quietly. Between the salt and pepper shakers, across the cleared plates, his voice sanded smooth of any weight it might carry.

"She asked if I could stop by the bakery this weekend." He's not looking at you. Not avoiding you either. Just... somewhere past your shoulder. "Just to see the new layout. She said she's testing a new recipe but wants another opinion.”

Your hand stops on the plate. One heartbeat. Two. Then you're wiping again, circular motions, thorough.

"That's nice of her," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds steady. You've practiced steadiness. “After all, you're good at baking. Cooking. All of it.”

He nods like he's grateful you understand. "It's just practical. I used to help there all the time. She trusts my opinion.”

Trust.

The word settles under your ribs like a splinter.

You see it anyway. The bakery always smelled like butter and yeast. Isabelle's apron strings tied in a perfect bow at her lower back. Her laugh was too bright, too frequent, too directed at him while his hands worked the dough. She never stood at a normal distance. Always half a step inside his space, like she was testing where the border was.

You never asked if he noticed that she has feelings for him by the way she keeps acting differently around him.

You set the plate down. Align it perfectly with the others.

"Then go."

He looks at you. Something flickers across his face—relief? Gratitude? You don't want to name it.

"It would be rude not to.” you smile. It reaches your eyes. You've practiced that too.

"You're sure?"

No.

"Of course."

The word hangs between you. He accepts it because he wants to. Because accepting is easier than digging.

He relaxes. Says something light about not being long, about bringing pastries home. He touches your elbow on the way to the living room. A thank you. A reassurance. You don't know which.

You stand alone in the kitchen.

The sponge drips slowly into the sink.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You open the cabinet. Reach past the olive oil, the red wine vinegar, the salt.

Behind the tea—his usual tea, the jasmine, the chamomile you bought for nights you can't sleep—your fingers find what they're looking for.

The bottle is small. Amber glass. It catches the light like honey, like poison in fairy tales, except it doesn't look like poison at all. It looks like medicine. Help. A solution.

You pull it out, cradling it in your palm like something fragile.

You don't read the label. You've memorized it.

Take one capsule daily. Do not exceed the recommended dose.

Such clean, clinical language for something that lives in the dark behind tea boxes.

You shake it once.

The capsules rattle when you shake them.

Like maracas. Like rain in a jar. Like nothing.

He's been so tired lately.

You see it in the hollow under his eyes. In the way he rubs his neck after long calls. In the meals he picks at, pushing food around his plate like he forgot what hunger feels like.

He won't stop. You know this the way you know your own reflection.

He'll keep saying yes. Keep bending. He gives until there's nothing left, then finds something else to give. It's who he is. It's who you married.

So.

You could help him rest with the ‘medicines’ inside this bottle.

Just a little dose. Just enough. Just so he rests. So he stays home. So he stops running to every person who calls his name.

Your thumb presses into the label. The paper wrinkles beneath the pressure. A small violence.

Your jaw tightens.

The capsules rattle again. Louder this time.

You exhale slowly, deliberately. Your thumb smooths the label flat. Wipe the wrinkles away.

Then you slide the bottle back behind the tea boxes, into the dark, into the place only you know.

Your hand leaves the cabinet.

The door clicks shut.

You stand there a moment, palm flat against the wood. Feeling the vibration of the latch settle. Feeling something else settles with it.

Then your shoulders ease and you drop your hand.

Softness returns to your mouth like water finding its level.

When you step out of the kitchen, your face is already rearranged into something kind, something patient.

He's in the living room. Reading. He looks up when you enter and smiles—small, tired.

"Everything okay?"

You smile back.

"Everything's fine."

His attention returns to his book.

You sit down beside him. Close enough that your knee almost touches his.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You didn't tell him that you'll pay a visit that day.

The bell above the bakery door chimes.

You step inside and immediately understand why he didn't want you to come.

The light is golden. Deliberate. The kind of warmth that makes everyone look soft, forgivable, worth remembering. Glass cases gleam. Fresh bread breathes on cooling racks. Everything smells like butter and yeast and the particular weight of nostalgia.

They haven't noticed you yet.

Yael stands at the counter with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, flour dusting his forearms like an old habit. Isabelle is beside him—not quite touching, but close enough that anyone watching would assume they share something.

She's holding a small plate.

"Just try it," she says. "Tell me if it's too sweet. You always knew when I went too far."

He looks down at the pastry. A small tart. Glazed fruit. Precise, delicate, made by hands that still remember his orders.

"Belle, I'm sure it's fine."

"Please?"

She says it softly. Intimate. The kind of please that used to work.

He picks up the fork.

You watch him take a bite. Watch his eyes close briefly—not performance, just memory. The taste of something familiar.

Isabelle watches his face like she's memorizing it.

"Well?"

He chews. Swallows. "The crust is good. The filling needs more salt.”

She laughs. Genuine. Relieved. "You always say that."

"Because you always forget."

"Maybe I just like hearing you say it."

It hangs there. Heavy. Deliberate.

He doesn't respond to her. Instead, his gaze drifts—toward the window, toward nothing—and then stops.

Finds you.

His eyes widened slightly. Not guilt. Just surprised. The kind that asks how long have you been there?

"You're here," he says.

It's not accusatory. It's something softer. Something that sounds like you didn't have to, but I'm glad you did.

You stay near the door, one hand loosely holding the strap of your bag, posture easy.

"Just thought I'd visit," you say. "Since you mentioned Belle was trying a new recipe.”

Her name lands exactly how you wanted it to. Not cruel. Just deliberate. A small reminder that you heard everything. That you know what she asked for. That you're not stupid.

Isabelle's smile tightens at the edges.

Yael glances between you both, sensing something he can't quite name. Then he shifts, suddenly aware of the space between him and her. He steps back. Just half a step. Just enough.

"I was just finishing up," he says quickly, already moving toward you. "It's nothing major. Just taste testing.”

"Don't stop on my account." You wave a hand lazily. "I want to try it too. If there's enough."

Isabelle's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Of course," she says. "I'll get another plate."

She disappears into the back.

Yael reaches you—close enough that his fingers curl gently around your elbow, just above the bone. The touch is subtle, almost instinctive.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lowered just for you.

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. You smooth your expression before he can read too much into it.

“Should I not be?”

He hesitates—and that hesitation is small, but you feel it.

“No,” he says, but there’s a beat before it settles. “I just—” He exhales through his nose. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

Ah.

There it is.

You let your brows lift slightly, like the idea surprises you.

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

He searches your expression like he’s trying to find what he missed. Like he’s waiting for the edge in your voice that never comes.

Something flickers across his face — guilt, maybe, or just uncertainty. He parts his lips as if to explain something, to smooth over something that hasn’t quite been named.

Then he stops.

Isabelle returns with a small plate, the tart sliced into careful portions. She holds it out to you.

"Here.”

You take it. Meet her eyes.

"Thank you." Pause. "It's nice that he still helps. Some things are hard to let go of."

She doesn't respond.

You take a bite.

Chew slowly. Swallow.

"Good," you say. "But he's right. It needs more salt.”

Isabelle stares at you.

Yael exhales something that might be a laugh. "Told you."

"You're both very opinionated," Isabelle murmurs.

"I should wash up," he says, glancing at you with a small smile. "It'll be just a minute and then we can go whenever you're ready."

He disappears toward the back.

Leaving you and Isabelle alone with the golden light and the smell of bread and the careful distance neither of you closes.

Silence settles.

You glance around slowly.

“It’s still the same,” you say casually.

Isabelle looks up. “What is?”

“The layout. The menu board. Even the seasonal display.” You gesture faintly toward the window. “You don’t change much.”

Her fingers rest on the counter. “People come back because it’s familiar.”

“Familiarity is comfortable,” you agree.

A small pause.

“Some things don’t need to change,” she adds.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Some things do.”

Her gaze sharpens just a touch.

“He helped build this place,” she says. “It makes sense to ask what he thinks.”

“It does,” you reply evenly. “But you have other bakers now, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And other regular customers. Friends. Staff.” Your smile is mild. “You don’t need his opinion every time you try something new.”

“It’s not every time.”

“Just the important ones?” you ask gently.

She doesn’t answer that.

You rest your fingertips against the glass display case.

“He’s married now,” you continue, voice soft but steady. “His time’s different.”

“I’m not stealing him,” she says, quiet but firm.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Another beat.

“I’m just saying… if you want feedback, you could ask someone else. One of your bakers. Or a tasting group.” You glance at the half-finished pastry. “You don’t have to call him specifically.”

Her jaw tightens.

“He understands me—”

“And I’m sure someone else could, too,” you cut her off. “If you let them.”

The sound of the back door opening breaks the tension.

Yael returns, sleeves rolled down, hands clean. He crosses to you without hesitation this time—not away from her, but toward you. There's a difference.

"Ready?"

You nod and slide your hand around his arm as if it belongs there. You then start moving toward the door with your hand intertwined with his and he follows you.

At the threshold, he pauses when he feels a tug to his sleeve, he looks back to find Isabelle looking at him again, searching his face.

“You don’t have to step back from this place entirely,” she says quietly. “We still value your input.”

Value.

He exhales slowly.

“I’m not trying to pretend this didn’t mean something to me,” he says, voice calm but carrying a quiet strain beneath it. “It did. It still does.”

Isabelle watches him carefully.

“But I can’t be as involved as I used to be,” he continues, softer now. “Things are different.”

Different.

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.

He has other priorities. And it's you

Isabelle’s gaze drops to where your hands are intertwined. Something unreadable flickers across her expression—regret, maybe. Or realization.

“I… understand,” she says eventually.

But she doesn’t sound like she does.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The bell chimes behind you.

Outside, the air feels cooler. Cleaner. He exhales deeply, shoulders dropping.

"Thanks for coming with me."

You glance up at him.

"I didn't come with you. I just happened to be visiting."

He laughs. Tired. "Right. Visiting."

You don't tell him the fact that you were watching from the doorway for almost two minutes or more, before you made a sound.

You don't tell him how her shoulder almost touched his. How she looked at him like he was something she'd lost and hadn't stopped looking for.

You don't tell him any of it.

You just hold his hand.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The kitchen light hums faintly above you.

Yael’s voice drifts from the living room, low and tired, answering something on the phone. You can hear it in the way he exhales—that thin thread of exhaustion he keeps pretending isn’t there.

You rest your hands on the counter for a moment, staring at the cup in front of you.

Steam curls upward, warm and gentle.

“Just something to help him sleep,” you murmur under your breath, almost absently. The words sound normal. Loving. Reasonable.

Between your fingers, the capsule feels weightless. You roll it once against your thumb.

It’s fine. It’s not a poison.

Poison is cruel. Poison is meant to end something.

This is not, this meant to help him.

You twist it open carefully and let the powder slip into the tea. It disappears instantly, swallowed by the amber liquid as if it had always belonged there.

It’s just a vitamin.

Something to ease the headaches. Something to make him rest.

You stir slowly, watching the surface smooth out again.

If he’s exhausted, they won’t push him.

If he’s unwell, they’ll stop relying on him.

If he’s too tired to go in tomorrow, he’ll stay home.

And home is better.

Home is safe.

You lift the cup and catch your reflection in the dark kitchen window. For a second, your eyes look empty—not because you feel nothing, but because the light doesn’t quite reach them.

You blink.

The look disappears.

By the time you step into the living room, your smile is soft again.

He looks up immediately when he sees you, shoulders relaxing just a little.

“There you are,” he says.

You hand him the cup gently, brushing your fingers against his as you do.

“I made your favorite,” you tell him.

And when he thanks you—when he drinks without hesitation—your smile deepens, warm and perfectly ordinary.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It isn't rage that settles into you.

Rage is loud. Immediate. The kind of thing that breaks dishes and doors and the careful quiet you've built. This is quieter than that.

You have always noticed things. The way he says "It's fine" when it isn't. The way he rubs the bridge of his nose when the headaches start—that small pinch between his brows that means he's pushing through something he shouldn't.

The way he flinches, just slightly, when his phone buzzes after dinner. How he doesn't check it immediately. How he lets it sit there, face down, vibrating against the wood like something guilty. But you see the way his attention drifts. The way he stirs the same pot three times without noticing. The way his eyes keep sliding toward that dark rectangle like it might summon him if he ignores it long enough.

He never answers right away. Not in front of you.

But later—when you're in the bathroom, when you're reading, when you've turned away just long enough—you hear the soft click of him picking it up.

And he always comes back to you with that same apologetic half-smile. "Sorry. They just needed—"

You never let him finish.

"It's okay," you say. "I know."

You do know.

You knew long before tonight how much of himself he lets them take. Not because he's careless with you. Because he's careful with everyone. Because he was taught that his stillness belongs to whoever reaches for it first.

That's why you chose something gentle.

Something that wouldn't hurt him.

Just… slow him down.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

In the afternoons now, when he comes home earlier than usual, the apartment feels different.

Softer.

He sets his bag down with a distracted frown, as if trying to remember what he forgot. As if there was somewhere else he was supposed to be. Some version of himself that hasn't learned to stop yet.

"There you are," you say lightly, already reaching for him.

He exhales when you touch him. Every time. That small surrender of breath that makes your chest ache with something tender and terrible.

The tension drains so easily it almost vindicates you.

"Head's killing me," he mutters.

You press your palm to his chest. Steady. Grounding. Feeling the beat of him against your hand.

"I know," you tell him gently.

You always know.

You know when he stops reaching for his phone in the evenings. When he forgets to check it at all. When he leaves it in his coat pocket overnight and doesn't realize it until morning.

You know when he cancels plans not because you asked, but because he's too tired to pretend anymore.

The relief that floods you when he says "I'll stay home"—when he turns toward you instead of the door—is sharp and private. It blooms low in your ribs, warm and possessive, something almost sacred.

And if he's too tired to give the world everything, then maybe the world will finally stop asking.

Maybe it will learn what you already know.

That he was never theirs to borrow.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He looks pale in the morning light. Movements slower than they should be, like he's wading through something invisible.

You brush his hair back and let your fingers linger.

"You didn't sleep."

He blinks at you. Soft. Unbothered. "I'm fine."

It's not a protest. It's just what he says. What he always says. Like the words themselves might make it true.

He reaches for his shirt.

You don't let him.

You step closer instead, palm pressing flat against his chest. His heartbeat finds you immediately—steady, alive, so entirely yours that something in your chest pulls tight.

"Take today off.”

He looks at you. No defense in his expression. Just that quiet openness he saves for no one else.

"I—"

"The world can wait."

You say it simply. Not harsh. Just true.

He blinks. Considering this like it's never occurred to him before. Maybe it hasn't.

You tilt his chin up. Gently. Until his eyes meet yours.

"When was the last time someone needed you to stay?"

His breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough.

He doesn't answer.

You don't need him to.

"Stay," you say. Not asking now. Just naming what you want. What you both want, if he'd let himself admit it.

He exhales. Slow. Long. Like something in him finally stops fighting.

"Okay."

One word. Simple. Complete.

He stays.

The apartment feels different that day. Warmer. Softer. Like something disruptive has been locked outside.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

After that, the shift is gradual enough to feel natural.

That's the trick, isn't it? Nothing happens all at once. Just small things. Easy things. The kind of things love looks like when no one's watching.

You start pointing out what he ignores.

The tremor in his hands when he hasn't eaten. The headaches he rubs at without mentioning. The way he blinks too long in the middle of sentences, like his body is begging for rest his mouth won't ask for.

"Your hands are shaking," you murmur one evening, reaching for them across the table.

He looks down. Surprised. As if they belong to someone else.

"Oh. I didn't notice.”

You become indispensable in the smallest ways.

His tea appears exactly when he wants it, before he knows he wants it. Vitamins by his plate. A blanket already unfolded when he sinks onto the couch. You suggest he lie down "just for a minute" and he does, because why wouldn't he? You're the one who sees him.

He begins to rely on you without noticing.

That's the beautiful part.

You adjust things carefully. Thoughtfully.

A little extra in his evening drink so he sleeps deeper—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep him under. A gentle observation that stress makes everything worse. A soft insistence that pushing himself isn't admirable, it's dangerous. That resting isn't weakness. That letting go isn't failure.

He listens.

He always listens.

You never frame it as a limitation.

You frame it as love.

And maybe that's the most honest thing you've done.

Because it is love. Just the kind that wants to keep. The kind that can't share. The kind that watches him sleep and thinks ‘if the world could see you like this, it would never give you back.’

So you make sure it doesn't.

One day at a time.

One cup at a time.

One small, gentle, necessary choice at a time.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He watches you more closely one night while you stir his tea.

You feel his gaze before you see it — that quiet weight, the way he studies you like you're something he's still learning. Months married, and he still looks at you like that.

Like you surprise him.

"You've been taking care of me a lot," he says.

Your hand doesn't pause. The spoon moves steady through the amber liquid. Clink against ceramic. Gentle. Rhythmic.

You meet his eyes calmly.

"I'm your wife."

It's not a deflection. It's the truth. The whole truth, even if he doesn't know how whole.

"And if I said I'm not as fragile as you think?”

Your smile doesn't falter. It softens, actually. Becomes something tender. Something that could live in a wedding album.

"I know you're not fragile."

You set the spoon down. Slide the cup toward him across the counter. Your fingers brush his as it changes hands.

"But I worry," you continue, voice low, "that you give too much of yourself. To everyone. All the time."

He holds your gaze.

You hold his.

"Someone has to protect what's left."

The words hang between you. Heavier than they should. Heavier than he knows.

For a moment, he doesn't move.

Then his fingers curl around the cup. Warmth seeping into his palms.

He doesn't look away.

He lifts it to his lips.

Drinks.

The swallow moves down his throat. You watch it. Feel it. Something private and possessive unfurls in your chest. Again.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He grows quieter in the weeks that follow.

The phone buzzes less. The office stops pulling. Whatever projects he carried alone slowly drift into other hands— not because he dropped them, but because he stopped reaching.

Isabelle's name fades from conversation entirely. Not dramatically, just—gradual. Like a voice you once heard clearly, now muffled by distance. Like a story losing relevance.

He spends more time beside you on the couch now. Head heavy in your lap, eyes half-closed while your fingers move through his hair. Sometimes he looks up at you, and there's something in his gaze you can't quite name. Not suspicion. Not fear.

Just wonder. The kind that asks how did I get here without knowing if it's grateful or afraid.

"You don't like sharing me," he says one evening.

Voice soft. No accusation. Just observation. Just him finally saying what he's figured out.

You don't pretend.

"No."

The honesty sits between you. Bare. Unapologetic.

He studies your face. Look for the cruelty that should live in a confession like that. Searches your eyes, your mouth, the quiet stillness of your expression.

He doesn't find it.

Because it's not there.

What he finds is something worse.

Love. Real and patient and terrible. The kind that doesn't want to hurt him—just wants to keep him. The kind that watches him sleep and thinks finally.

“I’m tired,” he admits instead. “Of being needed by everyone.”

Your hand stills in his hair.

He notices.

Slowly, he shifts, pushing himself up from your lap until he’s sitting upright beside you. Close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching.

“I’m tired,” he repeats, quieter now.

You reach for his hand before he can drop it to his side, then you lift it before he can think to move it, turning it gently until his palm faces you. Then you guide it to your cheek, pressing it there, holding it in place.

“With me,” you whisper, your voice softer than it’s been all night, “you’re allowed to rest.”

His thumb twitches slightly against your skin.

He doesn’t pull away.

Before he can respond, you tilt your head and press a slow kiss into the center of his palm. Your lips linger there, warm against his skin, right over the faint lines that map out his life.

His breath catches.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his fingers curl—not withdrawing, but cupping your cheek instead. His expression shifts into something deeper, heavier. Not confusion. Not fear.

Just understanding.

"You always do this," he murmurs quietly. His eyes drift away from your face, landing somewhere on the wall, on the floor, anywhere that isn't you.

"Do what?" you ask, still looking at him with that gaze full of love and admiration.

"Make it sound like staying is my choice.”

The words aren't accusatory. They're almost thoughtful. Like he's working through a puzzle he didn't know he was solving.

Your eyes darken.

Just a flicker. A heartbeat. Gone before he looks back.

"It is," you say, and form a sweet smile. Your hand moves to his jaw, gently cupping his face, guiding him back to you. "It is your choice, dear. I didn't force you to stay, did I?”

He searches your face.

You let him.

Find anything, you think. Find the lie. Find the cruelty. Find the thing that makes this wrong.

His thumb traces your cheekbone. Slow. Thoughtful.

"No," he says finally. "You didn't."

He believes it.

That's the thing. That's the part that makes your chest ache with something almost like guilt, except guilt would mean you'd stop.

You don't stop.

You just hold his face in your hands and let him believe.

Because he's right about one thing—staying is his choice.

He just doesn't know what he's choosing.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Sometimes you think about that other timeline.

The one where he didn't choose you. Where Isabelle smiled brighter, stayed closer, found ways to keep him. Where he kept offering himself to the world until there was nothing left for you to hold.

You used to visit that version of reality more often. Late at night, mostly. When his back was turned and your thoughts ran colder.

Now it feels distant. Fragile. Incorrect.

Like a story that never should have been written.

This is the right one.

Here, he sleeps easier when he's home. Deeper. Longer. The tension in his shoulders dissolves the moment he walks through the door.

Here, he reaches for you first. Before his phone. Before the fridge. Before whatever task his brain has catalogued as urgent. He finds you. Always.

After all, nobody loves him the way you do.

That's not pride. That's just truth.

Nobody watches him while he sleeps. Nobody notices the small tremors, the headaches he hides, the way he sways sometimes when he stands too fast. Nobody catalogues these things like prayer beads, counting them, holding them, using them to build something safe around him.

Nobody understands the weight he carries like you do.

Because you're the one who made it lighter.

And if loving him means keeping him close—closer, quieter, dependent on the safety only you can provide—then you'll protect your marriage the only way that truly works.

Completely.

Not because you're afraid he'll leave.

But because you're afraid the world will take him first.

And you can't let that happen.

You won't.

🫶 enjoy lmaoo, plz it's almost midnight when I edit this 😭 I'm so tired, I need sleep soo bad, I promise next time I'll write something sweet, romantic even. -Rix 2026

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