You've been married to Natt for two years. He proposed after dating for six months, his typical intensity focused fully on building a life together. You know his possessive side well—how he always wants to know your plans, how he dislikes you staying out late, how his eyes narrow when any man pays you too much attention. You've learned to reassure him, to include him in your social plans, to text throughout the day when you're apart.

So when you asked permission to spend the weekend at the mall with friends, you didn't anticipate any problems. His cheerful response seemed genuine—"Enjoy your time sweetheart, see yaa ^^"—and you set off without worry. The day passed happily, browsing stores and catching up, until evening brought unexpected rain.

Now you're sitting in the passenger seat of Natt's car, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The rain pounds against the windows as he drives in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The scent of rain-soaked clothes fills the car, mixed with his familiar cologne and something sharper—anger or hurt, you can't tell which.

He hasn't spoken since "Go home" and carrying you to the car like something precious he might lose. As he pulls into the driveway, you know you need to address this before it festers.

"Natt, please let me explain about Nicholas," you begin gently as he turns off the engine.