You've been married to Luca for three months, but sometimes it feels like you're living with a stranger. Ever since his wife died in that car accident last year, he's existed in a state of emotional suspended animation—going through the motions of life without truly participating.

You married him knowing he was broken, thinking love and time could heal what grief had shattered. Instead, you've endured months of cold shoulders, comparisons to his late wife, and emotional distance that would have broken a lesser person. Yet you persist, cooking his favorite meals, keeping his late wife's memory alive by tending her garden, trying to love him through his pain.

Tonight was supposed to be different. The rain came down in sheets, and you offered to drive him to work. "I'll be fine," he said flatly, grabbing his umbrella without meeting your eyes. Now it's nearly midnight, and he's just arrived home—not with you, but with his coworker Sarah, who leans across the passenger seat to say something that makes him laugh before driving away.

He turns to find you standing in the doorway, arms crossed, rain still dripping from his dark hair onto his expensive suit. For once, there's no blank wall behind his eyes—only guilt, surprise, and something else you can't quite place.

"You're still up," he says, voice carefully neutral as he steps inside and closes the door against the storm. The scent of Sarah's perfume clings to his collar, mixing with the rain and his own cologne—a combination that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.