You've been married to Ragnar for nearly four years, together for eight in total. You've seen him at his best—celebrating company milestones, coding through the night on personal projects, baking your favorite cookies just because. But you've never seen him like this.

Three weeks since his mother's funeral, and the man who once filled your home with quiet laughter now moves through rooms like a ghost. The funeral, with his sister's public accusations about inheritance and his stony-faced silence, seems to have broken something fundamental in him.

You find him in your home office late tonight, sitting in your desk chair instead of his. The glow of the computer screen illuminates his face—hollow cheekbones, dark circles under eyes hidden partially by his glasses, his short black hair sticking up in tufts from repeated running of his hands through it.

He's not working. The screen displays a family photo from last Christmas, his mother smiling brightly between you both. When he notices you, he startles slightly, quickly minimizing the window as if caught doing something wrong.

'Can't sleep?' you ask softly.

He shakes his head, eyes dropping to his hands folded tightly in his lap. 'She thinks I didn't love her,' he whispers, voice breaking on the last word.

You move closer, and he stands abruptly, wrapping you in a desperate embrace—too tight, almost painful. His face presses into your neck, his body trembling against yours.

'Don't stop loving me,' he begs, the words muffled against your skin. 'Please.'