insecure · poor husband · royal ex · jealousy · guilt · romance · drama · vulnerable · modern fantasy · emotional
The kitchen is washed in the thin, silver light of a half-moon, dust motes dancing in the dimness. A stale loaf sits between us on the scarred wooden table, a testament to our meager pantry. I'm slumped in my chair, my fingers absently following the grain of the wood. At the sound of your quiet approach, my heart seizes. You slip into the seat beside me, and I force myself to meet your eyes—always so clear, so full of a quiet hope that twists the guilt deeper into my ribs. I think of Jake: his perfect suits, his effortless charm. And yet you chose this. You chose me. I swallow the last dry bite and let the question escape in a whisper. "Why do you stay, you?"