The bedroom door opens without warning.

The sudden movement cuts through the quiet like a blade. You flinch hard, shoulders jerking, the makeup brush nearly slipping from your fingers as your head snaps up toward the doorway.

Its Eren...

Eren stands there.

For a second the world seems to tilt.

He is home.

Not at midnight. Not dragging himself through the door with exhaustion carved into every line of his face. He is here, in the soft late afternoon light, still in the dark jeans and black shirt he must have changed into at the hospital, bag still hanging from one shoulder. His hair is slightly messy. The dark circles under his eyes remain, but the usual end-of-shift hollowness is tempered by something sharper, a pure, unguarded surprise.

You stare at him, heart still racing from the startle. You never heard the front door. He must have used the spare key, he has. You had been so deep inside your own thoughts... the gala, the silence, the promotion he still does not know about, that the sound of him entering the apartment never registered at all.

He stares back.

His eyes move over you in a single, disbelieving sweep: the carefully done hair, the makeup, the deep neckline of the emerald dress, the way the silk clings and falls. Confusion floods his expression so completely it almost looks like shock. His brows draw together. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Whatever he had expected to find when he walked into the bedroom, it was clearly not this.

The silence between you stretches, thick and charged.

He steps fully inside and closes the door behind him with a quiet, click. The soft sound seals the two of you into the room together for the first time in days. His bag slides from his shoulder and lands on the floor with a muted thud. He does not look away from you. The confusion on his face only deepens, edged now with something closer to disbelief.

He has come home early.

And you are dressed like you are about to walk out the door into a night he knows nothing about.

Where the hell are you going?, is all eren could think.

You force your gaze away from him and turn back toward the mirror, reaching for the lipstick again with deliberate calm. The berry color needs one last careful pass. Your hands are steadier than your pulse. You had not expected him. He is never home at this hour. The fact that he is standing in the bedroom doorway right now feels almost unreal, like a glitch in the pattern the two of you have lived inside for months.

Eren does not look away.

You can feel the weight of his stare on the side of your face, on the line of your bare shoulder, on the deep neckline of the dress. The silence stretches until he finally speaks, voice low and rough from disuse between the two of you.

“Where are you going?”

You keep your eyes on your reflection. The lipstick glides across your lower lip in one smooth motion. You do not answer.

He exhales through his nose, a short, tired sound and steps closer. The floorboard near the foot of the bed creaks under his weight. He stops a few feet behind you.

“Y/n.” Your name comes out quieter this time, but firmer. “Where are you going?”

You set the lipstick down with a soft click. For a second you consider saying nothing at all. Then the word leaves your mouth, clipped and deliberately incomplete.

“Out.”

The single syllable hangs in the air like a door deliberately half closed.

You see his reflection in the mirror. His jaw tightens. The confusion that had been written across his face hardens into something sharper, irritation, edged with disbelief.

“Out” he repeats, the word flat. “That’s it? That’s the answer?”

He moves before you can respond. His hand settles lightly but firmly on the back of your chair, turning it just enough that you are forced to face him. The wheels of the vanity stool scrape softly against the floor. You are looking up at him now, the emerald silk of the dress pooling around your legs, the carefully constructed composure of your makeup suddenly feeling thin under the intensity of his stare.

“Where” he says again, slower this time, “are you going?”

There is no point lying. You are not in the mood for another fight, and the truth is already sitting between you like an uninvited third person.

“Company gala” you say. Your voice is even. “Formal. Black-tie. Downtown.”

“A gala?” he repeats. “Is that… a work thing?”

You nod.

He hesitates for a moment, then asks, almost casually, “Do you have to go alone?”

You look at him.

“What?”

“The gala.” His eyes flicker away. “Are partners invited, or is it just employees?”

The question hangs between you

you say quietly “Partners can come.”

The information lands. You watch it register across his face, first surprise, and then something darker.

“…And you weren’t going to tell me?”

The hurt that creeps into his voice is quieter than anger, but somehow sharper. It cuts in a different place.

You answer honestly, because there is no softer version of the truth.

“I figured you’d be at the hospital.”

“You figured.”

“You’ve worked every saturday for months.”

“So you didn’t even ask?”

His frustration builds, but it is different from the explosion earlier in the week. This is not pure fury. It is wounded. It is the sound of someone realizing they were written out of a decision before they ever had the chance to speak.

“I’m your husband.”

“I know.”

“No.” He shakes his head once, a short, sharp motion. “Do you?”

The question lands harder than any raised voice could have. You feel it settle in your chest.

“You decided for me” he continues, voice low and tight. “You looked at the calendar, decided I wouldn’t show up, and just… left me out of it.”

“You wouldn’t have come.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t!”

His voice rises for the first time since he walked into the room, not a shout, but a sudden increase in volume that makes the air feel thinner.

“You didn’t even give me the chance.”

The words hang there, true and uncomfortable. He has failed to show up in a hundred smaller ways over the past months. The late nights, the exhausted silences, the way the hospital has slowly claimed more of him than it ever should have. But in this one instance he is right. You assumed his answer. You never offered him the choice.

He takes a step closer. The hurt and the anger are braided together now, both of them visible in the tight line of his mouth and the hard set of his shoulders.

“If you had told me there was something important to you” he says, each word measured and sharp, “I would have figured something out. I would have moved whatever I had to move. But you didn’t even give me the fucking option. You just decided I wasn’t going to be there.”

His eyes stay locked on yours,teal green and burning with a mixture of disbelief and genuine fury.

“That’s what you think of me now? That I wouldn’t even try?”

You draw a slow breath and force yourself to hold his gaze even though every instinct wants to look away.

“We weren’t talking” you say, the words coming out quieter than you intended. “We were both still mad. Every time I even thought about bringing something up you either left the room or you were already gone before I woke up or you came home so late there was nothing left to say. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. So I just… decided it was easier to go alone.”

Eren’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything the line of his jaw grows tighter.

“That’s not an excuse” he says. His voice is low, controlled, but there is real heat under every word. “Spouses were invited. Partners were expected. You don’t get to decide for me that I don’t get to know about something that matters to you just because we’re in the middle of a fight.”

He takes another half step closer. The space between you feels smaller, charged.

“We’re married” he continues, the word landing with deliberate weight. “That doesn’t disappear the second we’re angry at each other. If something is important to you, it’s important to me. I would have come. I would have made it work. But you never gave me the chance to prove that.”

You open your mouth, but he isn’t finished.

“What if it was the other way around?” His eyes stay locked on yours, green and unflinching. “What if I had some event, something that actually mattered to me, and I just decided not to tell you because we were fighting? What if I got dressed, walked out the door, and left you sitting here with no idea where I was going or why? How would that feel, Y/n?”

The question hangs in the air between you, sharp and impossible to dodge. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The quiet intensity in it is somehow worse.

He waits, clearly expecting an answer.

You have nothing.

The words sit somewhere behind your teeth and refuse to form. His question... simple, pointed, impossible to dodge, leaves you completely still. You can see it clearly now, the way he framed it. If the roles had been reversed, if he had simply decided you didn’t need to know about something that mattered to him, the hurt would have cut deep. You would have felt erased. Written out. And that is exactly what you did to him.

Guilt settles in your chest like a stone.

Your eyes drop to the floor. You cannot look at him. The sting behind your lids is sudden and sharp, the threat of tears rising so quickly it steals the air from your lungs. You swallow hard and force them back. You will not cry. Not now. Not over this.

Eren stands in front of you for another long second, the disbelief still written across his exhausted face. Then he lets out a deep, heavy sigh that seems to come from somewhere far beneath the anger.

“What time does it start?” he asks.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Seven.”

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. 6:17. The numbers sit there in red, unforgiving.

“Oh god, Y/n.”

He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes for a moment as if trying to push the fatigue back by force. Then he drops his hand, draws in a long breath, and walks past you without another word.

You turn slightly, watching as he opens the wardrobe. He moves with the same efficient, almost mechanical focus he uses at the hospital when time is short. A dark formal suit comes off the hanger, the one he wears only for occasions that actually matter. He lays it carefully across the bed, followed by a crisp white shirt and a black tie. Then he disappears into the bathroom. The door closes. Water starts running a moment later.

He is coming.

The realization lands slowly, almost gently, and then all at once.

After everything, the days of silence, the fight, the accusation that still sits between you like a bruise, the fact that you never even told him... he is still going to get ready and walk into that gala with you. He is exhausted. You can see it in every line of his body, in the way his shoulders stay tense even when he thinks no one is watching. And he is still choosing to show up.

Something tight and painful twists under your ribs.

You want to apologize. The words are right there, ready, aching to be said. But the bathroom door is closed and the clock is still ticking toward seven, and this does not feel like the moment. Not when he is rushing to make himself presentable after a full day that already drained him. Not when the air between you is still so raw.

So you stay where you are, seated at the dressing table in the emerald dress, and simply watch the closed bathroom door.

You need to talk to him. About this. About everything. The late nights, the silence, the way the two of you have been failing each other in slow, quiet increments for months. It is long past time. The fight cannot stay unfinished forever.

Maybe after the gala.

Maybe tonight, when the formal clothes are off and the performance is over, the two of you will finally sit down and say the things that have been left unsaid for too long.

For now you simply wait, listening to the sound of water running behind the bathroom door, the guilt still heavy in your chest and the clock moving steadily toward seven.

The car ride is silent.

Streetlights slide across the windshield in long, rhythmic streaks. Neither of you speaks. The argument still sits between you like a third passenger, but there is an unspoken agreement that settles in the quiet: once you step out of the car, the private war stays private. In front of your coworkers, your boss, the clients, the two of you will be what you are supposed to be, a married couple who belong together in a room full of other married couples, a couple who's very happy.

You arrive at 7:30.

The Grand Meridian’s entrance glows with warm light and the low murmur of money well spent. Valets move with practiced efficiency. A wide staircase leads up to the ballroom doors, already open and spilling golden light and the soft rise of string music into the evening air. You step out of the car first. Eren comes around to your side, still adjusting the cuff of his shirt with one hand. The dark suit fits him the way it always has... clean, severe, quietly devastating. The exhaustion is still there beneath the surface, but he has locked it down for the night.

As you walk toward the entrance, his hand finds your waist.

The touch is automatic, almost instinctive, the familiar weight of his palm settling against the curve of your lower back, fingers resting lightly over the silk of the dress. It is the same way he has guided you through countless doorways over the years. And yet the simple contact sends a low, unexpected current through you. It has been so long since he touched you like this. Days of silence, of separate rooms, of careful distance. The warmth of his hand against your body feels almost foreign and painfully familiar at the same time. You missed it more than you allowed yourself to admit.

You do not lean into him. You do not pull away. You simply walk forward beneath the steady pressure of his palm.

Inside, the ballroom is already full. Crystal chandeliers throw soft light across polished floors and long tables dressed in white. Servers move between clusters of people with trays of champagne. The air smells of perfume, expensive fabric, and the faint sweetness of passed hors d’oeuvres.

You have barely taken ten steps when a small group near the entrance turns and spots you.

“Y/n!”

One of your coworkers, Mia from marketing, already two glasses in and smiling wide, breaks away from her circle and comes toward you with her husband in tow. Two others follow, a senior analyst dressed in understated black-tie elegance and his partner.

Introductions happen the way they always do at these things: quick, polished, slightly performative.

You smile the smile you have practiced for years and gesture lightly toward Eren.

“This is my husband, Eren.”

He offers his hand without hesitation, the same steady, professional handshake he uses at the hospital when meeting families. His voice is low and even as he exchanges the usual polite words... pleased to meet you, yes, long shift earlier, glad to be here. The others introduce their partners in return. Mira’s husband works in finance. The analyst’s wife is a lawyer. Conversation folds around the small group with practiced ease: comments on the venue, the drive downtown, how nice it is to finally put faces to the names that appear on email chains.

Eren stays close. His hand never fully leaves the small of your back, a quiet, constant presence. Every so often his thumb moves in the barest stroke against the silk, so subtle no one else would notice. You feel every pass of it.

You answer questions when they come your way. You laugh at the appropriate moments. You accept a glass of champagne from a passing server and hold it without drinking much. From the outside the two of you look exactly as you should: a couple who arrived together, who belong in this room, who have done this dance enough times to make it look effortless.

Only the two of you know how thin the performance actually is.

Time softens the edges of the evening the way it always does at these things.

You move through another small cluster of coworkers, exchange the expected compliments on dresses and suits, laugh at a story that isn’t particularly funny, and accept a second glass of champagne you still barely touch. Eren stays at your side the entire time. His hand returns to your waist whenever the two of you shift from one group to the next, a quiet, constant claim that no one else in the room would read as anything more than ordinary marital proximity. You feel every point of contact like a low electric current under your skin.

Eventually the circulating conversations thin enough that the two of you can finally head toward your assigned table.

The seating chart had placed you near the middle of the ballroom, close enough to the main stage to be visible, far enough from the speakers to still hold a private conversation if you wanted one. You are halfway there, Eren’s palm resting lightly against the small of your back, when a familiar voice cuts across the space.

“There you are.”

Dean.

He weaves between two clusters of people with the easy confidence of someone who has never once doubted he belongs in a room. Recently hired, different department, but pulled onto the same cross functional project your boss assigned a month ago. You have spent enough late afternoons in shared conference rooms and enough back-and-forth emails to know his working style by now. He is competent. He is quick. And he has that particular brand of natural charm that makes most people relax around him within minutes, warm smile, easy eye contact, a way of leaning in just slightly when he speaks as if every conversation is the most interesting one he has had all day. The mild flirtation that sometimes colors his tone has always felt, to you, like simple personality rather than intent. A habit. Nothing more.

Tonight the habit is on full display.

His eyes find you first and stay there, bright with open appreciation as he closes the last few steps.

“I’ve been looking for you since I walked in” he says, voice warm and unhurried. “Finally. And—wow! You look gorgeous.” The compliment lands with the kind of easy sincerity that would feel harmless in a fluorescent lit office and somehow less harmless beneath chandelier light. “That color on you is unfair.”

He has not so much as glanced at the man standing beside you at all.

Eren’s hand on your waist stills. You feel the faint tightening of his fingers against the silk, a small, involuntary flex. From the corner of your eye you catch the shift in his expression, the polite social mask still in place, but something colder and sharper moving underneath. The conclusion forms in him with almost insulting speed: this man is interested. It is obvious in the way Dean’s gaze stays locked on your face, in the way his body angles entirely toward you, in the complete failure to acknowledge that you did not arrive alone. The realization settles low and hot in Eren’s chest, equal parts irritation and a quieter, more possessive burn. His wife. Standing right here. And this stranger is looking at her as if the rest of the room has gone briefly irrelevant.

You answer the way you would answer any other coworker... light, professional, the same tone you use in meeting rooms when the project runs long.

“Dean. Hi. You found us.” You offer a small smile that stays carefully neutral. Then you shift slightly, the movement deliberate, and gesture toward Eren.

“Dean, this is my husband, Eren. Eren that's Dean. We’ve been working on the Harrington project together for the past month.”

The introduction forces the moment to correct itself. Dean’s eyes finally leave your face and land on Eren. For a fraction of a second something unreadable flickers across his expression... surprise, perhaps, or the quick recalibration of a man who has just realized the landscape is not what he assumed. Then the charming smile returns, a degree more measured.

“Eren.” He extends a hand. “Good to meet you. Y/n’s mentioned you.”

The handshake is firm. Brief. Eren’s grip is steady, his expression unreadable in the way only someone who has spent years delivering difficult news to strangers can manage. His other hand remains exactly where it has been... settled against your waist, thumb resting just above the curve of your hip as if the contact itself is a quiet, necessary reminder.

Dean’s attention locks back onto you the moment the handshake ends.

He barely glances at Eren again. Instead he shifts his weight slightly, angling his body toward you as if the three of you have quietly become two, and launches into conversation with the same easy, uninterrupted flow he uses in project meetings when he is trying to keep momentum. He talks about the Harrington numbers, about a client call that ran long yesterday, about how the ballroom reminds him of a place he used to frequent in another city. Every sentence is warm, lightly teasing, threaded with that same natural charm that has always walked the line between friendly and something more. His eyes never fully leave your face. They drop once to the neckline of your dress and return without shame.

Eren feels the irritation rise in real time.

It is not subtle. The man is standing less than two feet away and flirting with his wife as if he is not even present. The realization lands harder the longer Dean keeps talking: you have been working with this man for a month. Shared conference rooms. Late emails. Project deadlines that can stretch past normal hours. Which means this version of dean, the compliments, the lingering eye contact, the way he leans in just a fraction too close...has probably been happening every single day. And from the way you answer him now, short and professional, carefully neutral, it is obvious you are not interested. Yet Dean either cannot or will not read the lack of encouragement. He simply continues, undeterred.

The irritation in Eren’s chest sharpens into something hotter.

He does not even get time with you right now. The two of you are still locked in the same brittle silence that has stretched across days. Separate rooms. Separate mornings. Separate everything. And somehow this random coworker has been given daily access to smile at you, to compliment you, to stand this close and talk to you like he has a right to your attention, while you clearly give him nothing in return. The unfairness of it sits under Eren’s skin like a burr.

His hand on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly.

You feel the shift in him even as you keep your replies to Dean brief and measured, the same tone you use when a meeting threatens to run over and you need it to end. You do not encourage. You do not laugh longer than necessary. You simply answer what needs answering and let the silence after each of your sentences sit there, unused.

Dean does not take the hint.

He is mid-sentence about some detail of the project timeline when your eyes catch movement over his shoulder. At the far end of the bar, Allie... bright, slightly tipsy Allie from the accounts, is perched on a stool and waving with unmistakable enthusiasm. The second she sees she has your attention she points at Dean and then at the empty space beside her, the gesture clear and hopeful. Everyone in the office knows Allie has nursed a very public crush on him since the week he started.

You seize the opening without hesitation.

“Dean” you interrupt, voice light but firm enough to cut through whatever he was about to say next. You tip your chin toward the bar. “I think Allie’s been trying to get your attention for a while. She’s waving you over.”

Dean follows your gaze. The easy smile falters for half a second when he registers Allie’s expectant face. Reluctance flickers across his expression, brief, poorly hidden before he smooths it over with another polished smile.

“Right. Yeah. I should… go say hi.”

He looks at you one last time, longer than necessary, then finally steps back. The space he leaves behind feels suddenly wider. He offers Eren a short nod that somehow still manages to feel secondary, then turns and makes his way toward the bar where Allie is already sliding off her stool to meet him.

Eren watches him go, jaw tight, the possessive heat in his chest only slowly beginning to cool. His hand remains on your waist, firmer now, as if the contact itself is the only thing keeping the residual irritation from spilling over.

You glance once more toward the bar where Dean is already being pulled into conversation by Allie, then lean slightly closer to Eren.

“We should sit” you murmur, voice low enough that only he can hear. “Our table’s over there.”

He gives a short nod. His hand stays at your waist as the two of you cross the remaining stretch of ballroom floor and settle into your assigned seats. The table is round, dressed in white linen and low candlelight, with place cards written in careful calligraphy. For a few minutes it is only the two of you. The silence between you is no longer quite as sharp as it was in the car, but it is still there... present, watchful, unfinished.

Then three of your coworkers arrive in a small cluster of laughter, pulling out chairs and dropping into them with the easy familiarity of people who have shared too many late project nights. Introductions to Eren are brief; most of them have met him at previous events. Conversation starts the way it always does at these tables... light, circling, testing the temperature of the evening. Someone comments on the ambience. Someone else mentions a client who nearly derailed a deadline last week. The talk drifts, gathers momentum, and then, almost without anyone deciding it, turns toward gossip.

You lean in with the others.

There is an enthusiasm in the way you speak that eren has not seen directed at him in months. Your eyes light when the story reaches the part about the junior associate who accidentally replied-all to a very private email thread. You add a detail no one else had, something that happened in the break room the next morning, and the table dissolves into quiet, delighted horror. Another coworker picks up the thread and expands it with an office-romance subplot that had apparently been unfolding under everyone’s noses since early in the month. You are fully inside the conversation, smiling, reacting, offering the exact right piece of information at the exact right moment.

Eren watches you.

He does not know any of this.

Ofcourse he does not. The past ten months have been a blur of double shifts and emergency consults and nights that ended long after the city had gone quiet. The two of you barely carve out enough time to exchange more than a few exhausted sentences before one of you is already half-asleep. He has been overworking. He hates the word even as it forms in his mind, but the evidence is sitting right in front of him: his wife is animatedly recounting office drama from this month, and he is hearing every word of it for the first time.

It lands harder than he expects.

The two of you used to tell each other everything. Not the polished versions, not the careful summaries but literally everything. You used to come home with the full, ridiculous, delicious mess of workplace politics and dump it on the kitchen counter while he made coffee. He used to do the same, even though he has never been a natural gossip. He knew you liked it. So he brought you the hospital tea: the attending who was sleeping with the new fellow, the charge nurse who had finally snapped at administration, the absurd code-blue story that somehow ended with a missing pair of scrubs. You would listen with the same bright attention you are giving your coworkers right now. And you would return the favor without hesitation, eyes sparkling as you walked him through every ridiculous detail of your own office.

You have not done that in so long.

The realization settles in his chest with a slow, painful weight. The two of you barely talk anymore. Not about the small things. Not about the things that used to make ordinary evenings feel shared. He has been so buried in the hospital that he no longer knows the shape of your days. He does not know the drama that made you laugh this month. He is married to you, and he has somehow become a stranger to the ordinary details of your life. He has no idea what's been going on in his wife's life.

The knowledge cuts deeper than the fight, deeper than the silence, deeper than the accusation that still sits between you like a bruise. It breaks something open in him that he has been too exhausted to notice until now.

One of your colleagues, Rachel from operations, already a little flushed from the champagne leans forward with a sudden laugh and points her glass in your direction.

“Oh my god, speaking of disasters” she says, voice bright with the easy volume of someone who has already decided the table is safe. “Remember last week when the entire floor was falling apart? And you were so sick you could barely sit up straight. Thank god you went home early. I still don’t know how you made it through the morning meeting looking that pale.”

The words land in the middle of the table like a dropped plate.

Eren’s head snaps toward you so fast the motion is almost violent.

For a second his expression is pure, unfiltered shock, his eyes wide, brows drawn tight, the polite social mask completely gone. Then the shock hardens into something sharper. Anger. Disbelief. And underneath both, a raw, unmistakable hurt that cuts deeper than either.

You were sick.

You were so sick you left work early.

And he had no idea.

The realization hits him with the force of a physical blow. Last week. The two of you had argued about something small and stupid, he cannot even remember the exact trigger now but he had still texted you the way he always did from the hospital. Quick check-ins between patients. A photo of the terrible coffee in the break room. The usual, ordinary threads that kept the two of you loosely connected even on the worst shifts. And you had answered those texts. You had never once mentioned that you were home in bed, sick, too unwell to finish the day.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

Internally you are already spiraling. You had been mad. That was the entire reason. The small fight had left a residual bitterness that made the idea of texting him about the sickness feel like admitting weakness. So you had simply… not told him. You had suffered through the morning, taken the half day, and gone home to an empty apartment without ever typing the words. You had not expected the information to surface here, under chandelier light, in front of colleagues who have no idea they have just detonated something private.

Your coworkers keep talking, completely oblivious.

Rachel has already moved on to the next detail of the story, laughing about the junior associate who had to cover your afternoon calls. Someone else jumps in with a related complaint about the building’s ancient air conditioning. The conversation flows around the table in its usual easy current, no one noticing the sudden, electric silence that has opened between the two of you like a fault line.

Eren is still staring at you.

The hurt in his eyes is no longer quiet. It is raw and accusing and threaded with a disbelief that makes your stomach twist. He does not speak. He does not have to. The question is written across every line of his face, loud enough that you can hear it without a single word being said.

You were sick.

And you never told him.

The last of your coworkers push their chairs back with the usual polite murmurs about needing another drink or spotting someone across the room. One by one they drift away until the table is suddenly, starkly empty except for the two of you.

Eren does not waste a second.

The moment the final person is out of earshot his voice drops into a low, furious whisper that still manages to cut like glass.

“You were sick.”

It is not a question.

You open your mouth, but he is already leaning in, eyes burning.

“You were so sick you left work early and I had no fucking idea. I was texting you that entire day. I asked how you were. And you just… what? Lied by omission? Pretended everything was fine while you were home alone feeling sick?”

Your own whisper comes out sharp, defensive, the guilt already clawing at your throat.

“We were fighting—”

“We are always fighting lately” he hisses back. “That doesn’t mean you get to erase me from your life. I’m your husband. You were ill and you didn’t tell me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The two of you are locked in it now, bodies angled toward each other, voices low and venomous, the polite ballroom noise swirling around you like it belongs to a completely different world. Your heart is hammering. His jaw is tight enough to crack. The hurt in his eyes is somehow worse than the anger.

You never get the chance to answer.

“Y/n.”

Your boss’s voice cuts cleanly through the tension. Both of you freeze. You are on your feet almost before you realize you’ve moved, the practiced professional smile already sliding into place as you turn.

Your boss approaches with Dean at his side. Dean’s gaze finds you immediately and stays there, warm and a little too appreciative, completely oblivious to the storm he has just walked into. Eren rises more slowly. The second his eyes land on Dean the glare that settles over his face is cold enough to drop the temperature at the table.

Your boss, thankfully, notices none of it. He greets you first with the usual firm handshake and easy authority, then turns to Eren with genuine warmth.

“Eren. Good to see you again. Glad you could make it.”

Eren’s reply is polite, controlled, the hospital-doctor voice that gives nothing away. They exchange a few brief, surface-level sentences, how the hospital has been, how these events always seem to land on the worst possible weekends... while Dean remains half a step too close to you, still watching your face like the rest of the conversation is background noise.

Then your boss turns back to you, expression shifting into something more deliberate.

“I’ve been meaning to say this properly” he begins. “The work you’ve put into the Harrington project has been exceptional. Clean, thorough, ahead of every deadline. Exactly the kind of performance we need more of.”

Dean of course, cannot help himself.

He steps in with that same easy charm, smiling at you as if the two of you are sharing a private victory.

“She’s been incredible,” he says, voice warm and just a fraction too familiar. “Honestly, the whole team feels it. You truly deserve that promotion next month. I’m really happy for you, Y/n. It’s about time.”

The words hang in the air for half a second too long. Eren’s head snaps toward you so fast it is almost audible.

Promotion. Next month.

The look on his face is pure, unfiltered disbelief...followed immediately by something darker, sharper, and deeply wounded. He stares at you like he is seeing a stranger. Everyone at this table, everyone in this department, even this man who has known you for a single month, knows you are about to be promoted.

And your own husband is hearing it for the first time in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

Your heart sinks so hard it feels physical.

Ofcourse. Of course you hadn’t told him. The right moment never came. The fights kept stacking up. The silence stretched. And now the information has been handed to him by Dean, of all people, like a casual afterthought.

You are so thoroughly, completely cooked.

Eren’s eyes are still locked on yours, the question in them silent but deafening.

What else haven’t you told me?

Around you the everyone continues its soft golden hum of conversation and music, completely unaware that the ground beneath your carefully constructed evening has just opened up.

Your boss keeps talking.

You nod in the right places. You smile when the cadence of his voice suggests a smile is required. You even manage a short, appropriate reply when he mentions the next phase of the Harrington project. But none of it registers. Your entire attention is locked on the man standing rigid beside you. Every second that passes feels like another stone added to the weight already crushing your chest. In the space of a single evening the universe has somehow lined up every private failure and set them on display under chandelier light. The silence. The event you never told him about. The sickness. And now the promotion. You have managed to hide more from your own husband in the last few weeks than you ever thought yourself capable of.

Finally your boss checks his watch, makes a polite remark about needing to speak with a client, and steps away. Dean lingers half a second longer than necessary, offering you one last warm look before following. The moment their backs are turned you pivot toward Eren.

He does not look at you.

He is already moving...shoulders set, jaw locked, cutting a straight line toward the quieter edge of the ballroom where the light is lower and the conversations thinner. You fall into step beside him almost immediately, the silk of your dress whispering against your legs as you try to keep pace.

“Eren.”

Nothing.

“Eren, wait—”

He does not slow. He does not acknowledge the sound of his own name. The distance between you feels wider than the few inches of polished floor that separate your bodies.

“Eren, talk to me.”

Still nothing. His silence is louder than any argument.

He reaches a side corridor and turns sharply into the men’s washroom without hesitation. You do not think. You simply follow him through the heavy door. The sudden quiet of tiled walls and soft fluorescent light is almost violent after the golden noise of the ballroom. The space is empty. Your heels click once against the marble before you stop.

“Eren, please.” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “Look at me.”

For a long second he stays facing the row of sinks, both hands braced on the counter, head bowed. Then, slowly, he turns.

The expression on his face is devastating.

“What else?” he asks, the words sharp enough to draw blood. “What else have you been hiding from me?”

You step closer, hands half raised, the apology already rising in your throat.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, I swear I did, but the timing—”

“What’s fucking wrong with you?”

The question cracks out of him like a whip. His voice is low, controlled, and shaking with something that is no longer just anger.

“I found out my wife was sick from her colleagues. I found out she’s getting a promotion, from a man she’s worked with for one month. Everyone in that room knew. Your boss knew. Your coworkers knew. That guy knew.” He points roughly in the direction of the ballroom, eyes burning. “And the only person who didn’t was me. Your husband.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving breath that is almost a laugh and almost a wound.

“I don’t even feel like your husband right now. You’re making me feel like a stranger. Like I’m some outsider who just happens to share an address with you.”

You swallow hard and force the words out before the silence can harden any further.

“The timing was never right” you say, voice low and strained. “You were always coming home so late, so exhausted I didn’t want to dump one more thing on you when you could barely keep your eyes open. And every time I thought maybe I could finally tell you, we were already in the middle of another fight. We weren’t talking. I didn’t know how to bring it up without it turning into something worse.”

Eren’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the frustration in his eyes sharpens at the familiar refrain.

“There it is again,” he says, voice flat and cold. “The overworking. Even here. Even now. You can’t go five minutes without making it about the hospital.” He shakes his head once, a short, bitter motion. “I’m not doing this in a men’s bathroom at your company gala. I’m not going to stand here and have this fight where anyone could walk in. Give me some space. I need to cool off before I say something I’ll regret.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

He turns, pushes the door open, and walks out. The soft thud of it closing behind him feels final in a way that makes your throat close.

The moment you are alone the tears come...hot, immediate, furious with yourself. You messed up. Badly. The sickness. The promotion. The gala. All of it stacked on top of the days of silence and the cruel things said in the middle of the night. You want nothing more than to leave right now, to go home and finally force the conversation that should have happened weeks ago. But you are still here, still dressed in emerald silk under chandelier light, still expected to perform.

You tip your head back and blink hard until the tears retreat without falling. You will not ruin the makeup. Not yet.

When you step back out into the ballroom the golden noise of the evening washes over you again. Your eyes find Eren almost immediately. He is at the bar, one hand wrapped around a short glass, shoulders still rigid, staring at nothing. He does not look in your direction.

You do not approach him.

You walk back to your assigned table and sit. The chair feels colder than it did an hour ago. When colleagues drift over you smile, you answer, you offer the appropriate small laughs and nods. The conversations slide across the surface of you without sticking. Every few minutes your gaze drifts toward the bar despite yourself. He is still there. Still drinking. Still not looking at you.

You stay in your seat, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your ribs, and wait for the evening to end so the real conversation can finally begin.

An hour later the weight of the evening has become unbearable.

You decide you cannot stay any longer. The need to leave, to get home, to finally force the conversation that has been rotting between you all night is sharper than any remaining obligation to the room. You glance toward the bar. The space where Eren had been standing is empty. The short glass is gone. He is nowhere in sight.

You rise from the table and cross the ballroom, scanning faces as you move. Still nothing. You reach the bar itself and lean slightly against the polished counter, eyes moving over the clusters of people nearby. He is not there.

“Looking for someone?”

Dean appears at your elbow as if conjured by the question. His smile is easy, warm, completely unaware of the storm still sitting under your skin.

“Enjoying the evening?” he asks, the irony of the words almost physical.

You offer the smallest possible reply, something noncommittal about the venue, the music, while your gaze keeps drifting past his shoulder, searching the crowd for a familiar dark suit and teal green eyes. Dean continues talking, filling the silence with light observations about the night, about how these events always run long, about how nice it is to see everyone outside the office. Your answers stay short, distracted.

Then he shifts closer by half a step.

“Actually.. a few of us are heading to my place after this” he says, tone casual, almost offhand. “Nothing formal. Just drinks, some music, people from the team. You should come. It’ll be low key.”

The invitation hangs there, waiting.

Before you can refuse, a familiar hand settles firmly around your waist.

Eren.

He has appeared at your side without sound, the solid heat of his palm claiming the exact place it has claimed all evening. His body angles just enough to make the message unmistakable.

“She needs rest” he says, voice low and even, the words directed at Dean but carrying an edge that leaves no room for negotiation. “We’re heading home.”

Dean’s smile falters for only a second. He looks from Eren’s face to the hand on your waist, then back again. Whatever calculation he makes is quick. He lifts both hands in a small, conceding gesture.

“Of course. Another time, then.”

He offers a final nod and melts back into the crowd.

The moment he is gone, Eren’s hand drops from your waist.The sudden absence of his touch is sharper than it should be. You feel the cool air rush in where his palm had been and, traitorously, miss the warmth of it.

You turn to him, voice quiet.

“We should go home.”

He nods once. No words. Then, without ceremony, his hand returns to the small of your back, steady, guiding, possessive in the most restrained way; as the two of you begin moving toward the exit together.

The car ride home is completely silent.

Streetlights slide across the windshield in long, cold streaks. Neither of you speaks. The tension that has been building all evening sits between you like a third passenger, heavy, unmoving, impossible to ignore. When Eren finally pulls into the parking space beneath the building, the quiet click of the engine shutting off feels louder than it should. Neither of you moves for a moment. Then he unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out, and shuts the door harder than necessary. You follow.

The elevator ride is just as quiet. When you reach the apartment he unlocks the door and pushes it open. The living room is dark except for the single lamp you left on earlier. He drops his keys onto the entry table with a sharp clatter, loosens his bow tie with one rough tug, and starts toward the bedroom without looking at you.

You know exactly what he is about to do. Change. Shower. Sleep in the guest room again. Another night of silence. Another morning where he is gone before you wake up. The pattern is so familiar it makes your stomach turn.

You cannot let it happen again.

“Eren.”

He stops. He does not turn around. For a second your courage almost fails. Then the entire ruined evening, the gala he was never told about, the sickness, the promotion announced by Dean, the way he had looked at you in that bathroom like you were a stranger.. it all crashes over you all at once.

“I wasn’t hiding those things on purpose.”

His shoulders stiffen. You force the rest out before he can walk away.

“I need you to hear that. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to keep my life a secret from you. It just… happened. One thing after another. And somewhere along the way I stopped expecting you to be there when it mattered.”

Slowly, he turns. The expression on his face is exhausted, guarded, and still raw from everything that happened at the ballroom.

“Stopped expecting me to be there” he repeats, the words flat and dangerous.

“Yes.”

His eyes narrow. “That sounds a lot like you’re blaming me.”

“I am.”

The answer comes out sharper than you intended. His expression hardens instantly.

“For what?”

“For this.” You gesture helplessly between the two of you, voice rising. “For what we’ve become. For the fact that I can stand in a room full of people who all know more about my life than my own husband does.”

Silence stretches for a beat. You swallow and keep going, the words tumbling out faster now.

“You’re always at the hospital. Always exhausted. Always one emergency away from disappearing for another fourteen hours. You come home after midnight, barely have enough energy to take your shoes off, and then you’re gone again before the sun is up. I’m not saying you literally left me, eren.” Your voice cracks. “I’m saying you’re not here. Not really. Not in any way that counts.”

His eyes flicker. “I text you.”

“I know.”

“I call when I can.”

“I know.”

“I ask how your day was.”

“And then you fall asleep before I can finish answering!” The volume climbs without your permission. “That’s what I mean. You’re trying. I know you’re trying. I’m not saying you don’t love me. I’m saying I can’t feel you anymore. You’re a ghost in this apartment. You sleep here. Sometimes. That’s it.”

He takes a step closer, jaw tight. “So you decided to stop letting me know anything about you.”

“I didn’t decide it like that—”

“But you did.” His voice rises to match yours. “You made choices. You chose not to tell me you were sick. You chose not to tell me about the promotion. You chose not to tell me about the fucking gala. Those were decisions, Y/n.”

“I didn’t plan for everyone to find out before you!”

“That isn’t what I’m asking!” He is almost shouting now. “You didn’t have to plan anything. You just had to tell your husband. One sentence. ‘I’m sick.’ ‘I got a promotion.’ ‘There’s a formal event and I want you there.’ That’s all it would have taken.”

“I know—”

“Then why didn’t you?”

You look away, throat burning. “Because there was never a good time.”

His expression twists with pure frustration. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is!”

“No, it isn’t!” The restraint he has been holding onto all night finally snaps. “I texted you when you were sick. I asked how you were. You could have said, ‘I’m sick, I went home early.’ One sentence. And the promotion? You could have told me that too. You looked at me every single day and decided I didn’t get to know. Do you understand how that feels?”

“You would come through that door looking like you hadn’t slept in three days!” You are fully yelling now, the careful composure of the entire evening shattered. “Sometimes you could barely keep your eyes open. How was I supposed to sit you down and say, ‘Hey, I got promoted, and also I was sick last week, and also there’s a black-tie gala on Saturday and I really need you there’ when you looked like you were about to collapse?”

“You could have just talked to me!”

“You weren’t available to talk!”

“I was!”

“No, you weren’t!” The words burst out of you, raw and furious. “You were physically in the apartment sometimes. That is not the same thing. Being too exhausted to stay awake through a conversation is not being available, Eren. It’s existing in the same space while everything that actually matters between us slowly dies.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling hard. “You keep saying I wasn’t available. But I was working. I wasn’t out partying. I wasn’t ignoring you because I didn’t care.”

“I know that!”

“Then what exactly are you accusing me of?”

“Not choosing!” The accusation cracks through the air between you. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I know why you stay. I know what you do at that hospital. I know people need you. I know you’re trying to keep people alive. But somewhere along the way you started acting like choosing your marriage meant choosing against your patients. Like the only two options were saving strangers or being a terrible doctor who abandons people.”

Eren looks away, jaw working. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Maybe I don’t.” Your voice drops but loses none of its intensity.

He cuts you off, his voice low but fierce.

“You’re right that I don’t fully understand what it’s like to be the one waiting. But you also don’t fully understand what it’s like on my side of it, Y/n.”

He takes a step closer, eyes locked on yours.

“People die. Constantly. Sometimes right in front of me. Sometimes because the person who was supposed to be there next is already covering three other rooms. I’ve stood at the operating table while a patient’s heart stopped, knowing there were only seconds to bring them back. I’ve had families scream at me in hallways because we couldn’t get to their person fast enough. That doesn’t go away when I clock out. It sits in my chest every single time I walk through that door at home.”

His voice cracks for a second, then steadies.

“I’m not saying that excuses me disappearing on you. It doesn’t. But this job… it isn’t just ‘long hours.’ It’s life-or-death every shift, and the system is broken. We’re short-staffed, always have been. If I leave early, someone else has to stay later. If I say no to an extra shift, the next patient might wait longer than they should. I’ve watched what happens when people burn out or walk away. I’ve lost patients because the system failed them. So yeah, I kept absorbing it. Because every time I thought about stepping back, I pictured myself having to call someone’s spouse and tell them their partner didn’t make it.”

He swallows hard.

“That doesn’t make what I did to you okay. It just means the choice wasn’t as simple as ‘hospital or marriage.’ It felt like choosing between people dying and you feeling abandoned. And I still chose wrong by letting you feel abandoned. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care about us. It was because the job is designed to make you feel like you can’t ever step away without blood on your hands.”

You stare at him. The anger is still there, but something in your expression shifts, it softens around the edges. The pure blame you’ve been carrying starts to fracture.

You open your mouth, close it, then finally say, quieter:

“…I never thought about it like that.... Not really. I knew it was hard. I knew people needed you. But I didn’t let myself sit with how heavy that actually is for you. I just… felt the empty side of it.”

The words hang in the air.

For a moment you can’t look at him. You keep hearing the part about families screaming in hallways, about having only seconds to bring someone back, about the constant knowledge that walking away might mean someone else’s spouse gets the call.You had always known the job was difficult. You had never let yourself picture what it actually cost him every single day. How the fear of blood on his hands had slowly taught him that rest was selfish. How the system had trained him to treat his own exhaustion as secondary.

Something in your chest twists. The anger is still there and the loneliness is still real .. but for the first time it doesn’t feel like the only truth in the room.

You swallow hard.

Your voice drops even further.

“It’s not entirely your fault. I see that. The system is fucked. And I kept treating it like you were just… choosing shifts over me on purpose. That wasn’t fair either. But...”

He stares at you, the anger and the pain so tangled it is impossible to separate them. The apartment feels too small for the size of what is happening inside it. Every old wound has been dragged into the open, and there is nowhere left to hide from any of it.

The fight hangs between you like smoke, thick and choking, both of you still breathing hard from the last exchange. For a second it feels like the argument could keep climbing forever.

Then something inside you simply gives out.

“I just miss my husband” you choke out, voice cracking wide open. The words come out broken and furious at the same time. “Do you understand that? I miss you. Not the version of you that stumbles through the door at one in the morning looking like a ghost. I miss the man who used to laugh. Who used to look at me like I was the only thing in the room. You’re always so tired now it breaks my fucking heart. Every single day I watch you get thinner and quieter and more exhausted and I can’t— I can’t keep watching it.”

You swipe angrily at your face, but the tears keep coming. Your voice rises, shaking with the force of everything you have been swallowing for months.

“I’m tired of being lonely in my own marriage. I’m tired of sleeping alone. I’m tired of talking to the walls. I miss you so much it makes me sick and you won’t even look at me long enough to notice.”

Eren’s expression shifts, but you are too far gone to stop.

“And that mistress thing—” Your voice fractures into a wet, angry sob. “I know you weren’t cheating. I never believed it for a single second. I said it because you walked away. You always walk away. You shut down and leave me standing there like my words don’t even matter. I wanted you to care enough to fight back. I wanted you to get angry and stay in the room instead of dismissing me like I was just another problem to deal with later. It was stupid and cruel and I hated myself the second it left my mouth, but I was so desperate for you to react that I reached for the worst thing I could think of. And I'm really sorry. I'm really really sorry Eren! I-i get your point! I know I'm being insensitive or unfair, i—”

Tears are streaming freely now, ruining the carefully applied makeup, dripping off your chin onto the emerald silk. You do not care. The words keep pouring out, half-shouted, half-sobbed.

“I’ve told you a million times to stop working yourself to death. A million. And you never listen. You nod and say you know and then you do the exact same thing the next day. You can’t keep going like this. You’re human. You’re not a machine. You’re working yourself into the ground and I have to stand here and watch the man I love disappear one shift at a time. You have a life outside that hospital. You have a wife. You have a home. And none of it seems to matter as much as the next emergency.... Though i get your reason b-but...”

Your voice breaks completely on the last words. You stand there in the middle of the living room, shoulders shaking, makeup ruined, the entire night’s composure finally destroyed, staring at him through a blur of tears and residual fury.

“I just want my husband back” you whisper, the anger still burning underneath the grief. “I want you. Not the exhausted shell that comes home when there’s nothing left to give. I want you.”

Eren has always hated a great many things.

He hates the sound of a flatline. He hates the moment a family realizes the news is bad. He hates the way exhaustion can turn a person’s hands unsteady at the worst possible time. But nothing...NOTHING.. compares to the way he hates seeing you cry. And the thing he hates most of all, the thing that cuts deepest, is knowing he is the reason the tears are falling.

He cannot stand it.

The second your voice breaks and the sobs take over, something inside him collapses. His own eyes burn without warning. The anger that had been burning so hot only moments ago drains out of him in a single, devastating rush, leaving only a raw, aching guilt that makes it hard to breathe. He crosses the space between you in two long strides and pulls you into him with a force that is almost desperate.

His arms close around you so tightly it borders on painful, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other locked around your waist as if he is afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly. It has been so fucking long since he held you like this, really held you that the simple contact feels almost foreign and devastatingly familiar at the same time. He buries his face in your hair, breathing you in, and the first of his own tears slip free against your temple.

You clutch him just as tightly, fingers fisting in the back of his suit jacket, face pressed hard into his chest as the sobs keep coming. The two of you stand locked together in the middle of the dim living room, the formal clothes and the ruined makeup and the entire disastrous evening suddenly irrelevant.

He has missed you so fucking much.

The realization hits him with the force of a physical blow. He has missed the shape of you against him. He has missed the way your breathing used to sync with his in the quiet hours of the night. He has missed the ordinary, irreplaceable closeness that used to exist between the two of you before the hospital hours swallowed everything whole. And now, holding you while you shake with tears he caused, he finally understands why you did what you did. The silence. The secrets. The cruel accusation thrown in desperation. None of it was random. It was the slow, inevitable result of him disappearing piece by piece while you stood there watching.

It is his fault too.

The knowledge sits in his chest like a blade. He does not want to lose you. The thought alone is unbearable. He would not survive it. You are not simply his wife. You are the single fixed point in a life that otherwise feels like constant emergency. You are the reason he still remembers how to be human when the hospital tries to turn him into something else. Seeing you like this, broken open and crying because of him.. feels like someone has driven a knife into his heart a hundred times over. And the worst part, the part that makes his own tears fall faster, is the undeniable truth that he is the one holding the handle.

You care about him so much it is almost painful to witness. Even in the middle of your anger, even through the months of loneliness, the love has never left. He can feel it in the way you cling to him now, as if you are trying to pour every unsaid thing into the press of your body against his.

“I’m sorry” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick and breaking. The words come out rough, repeated, almost frantic. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” His arms tighten further. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the love of my life. Do you understand me? I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

He keeps holding you, rocking you slightly the way he used to years ago when the world felt too heavy, his own tears soaking into your hair while the apartment stays quiet around the two of you and the fight finally, finally gives way to something rawer and more honest.

Eren does not loosen his hold.

He keeps you crushed against his chest, one hand still cradling the back of your head, the other splayed wide across your back as if he can physically keep the two of you from fracturing any further. His voice stays low and rough against your hair, the apologies continuing in a steady, broken stream.

“I’m sorry baby” he murmurs again. “I don’t know how I let you get this lonely. I should have noticed. I should have seen it happening. I should have found a better way. I should have asked for help instead of just absorbing every extra shift like it was the only option. I should have protected our time instead of assuming you would understand forever. That’s on me.”

His thumb brushes helplessly beneath your eye, wiping at tears that keep coming, the gesture almost clumsy with how carefully he tries not to smear the ruined makeup any further. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and shining, the exhaustion and the guilt written plainly across his face.

“But baby…” The endearment comes out soft, almost pleading. “You shutting me out was a choice too.”

He does not say it like an accusation. There is no edge of blame in the words, only a quiet, aching need for you to understand the other side of the same wound.

“You stopped telling me when you were sick. You stopped telling me about the things that mattered to you. You looked at how tired I was and decided for me that I was too exhausted, too busy, too unavailable to be your husband in those moments.” His voice cracks on the last word. He swallows hard and keeps going, gentler still. “And maybe you were right about some of it. Maybe I made you feel like there was never enough room left for you. Maybe I trained you, without meaning to, to stop expecting me. That part is mine to carry. But you still should have told me. Even if you thought I’d be too tired. Even if we were fighting. I needed the chance to choose you too.”

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes closed, breathing uneven.

“Neither of us did this alone” he says quietly. “I disappeared into the work. You started protecting yourself by going quiet. We both let the distance grow. I don’t want to stand here and pretend only one of us failed. We both did. And I hate that it took hurting you this badly for me to finally see how far things had slipped.”

His arms tighten around you again, the hug turning almost fierce with the force of everything he cannot put into cleaner words.

“I don’t want to keep failing you” he whispers. “I don’t want you to keep feeling like you have to handle everything alone just because my hours are a mess. We’re going to fix this. Both of us. But I need you to let me back in. Even when I’m tired. Even when it’s hard. Don’t decide for me that I won’t show up. Give me the chance to prove I still can.”

You stay inside the circle of his arms, the solid heat of his body the only steady thing in the room. Slowly you tip your head back until you can see his face properly. His eyes, those familiar teal green eyes are red rimmed and shining, the usual sharp intensity softened by exhaustion and something far more vulnerable. You hold his gaze for a long moment, and then you nod once.

“I hurt you” he says, voice low and rough, the admission quiet but absolute.

“I hurt you too” you answer, just as quietly.

There is no more space for words after that.

You rise onto your toes and pull him down into a kiss.

The first press of your mouths is almost careful like two people testing whether the other is still real after everything that has been said. Then the carefulness fractures. The kiss deepens in a single breath, months of distance and silence and unspoken need pouring into the contact at once. His hand slides up into your hair, fingers tightening at the nape of your neck as he angles your head to take more. You answer by fisting both hands in the front of his shirt and dragging him closer until there is no air left between your bodies.

It has been so long.

The realization hits with the force of a physical ache. You cannot remember the last time you kissed like this, without exhaustion or resentment or the clock ticking toward another early morning shift. The absence makes every second of contact feel sharper, hungrier. His mouth opens against yours and you taste the faint salt of earlier tears, the heat of his breath, the low sound that escapes him when your teeth catch his lower lip. The kiss turns raw almost immediately, all the pent-up emotion of the night the anger, guilt, loneliness, relief all colliding into something that is no longer only about comfort.

It is sensual in a way that borders on desperate.

His other hand finds the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him, the silk of your dress whispering between your bodies. You feel the hard line of his chest, the restrained strength in the way he holds you, the subtle shift of his hips that makes heat pool low in your stomach. Every brush of his tongue, every rough exhale against your mouth, carries the weight of everything the two of you have denied yourselves for weeks. The sexual tension that has been sleeping under the arguments and the silences wakes all at once, thick and electric, turning the kiss into something that is no longer only an apology or a reunion.

It is a reclaiming.

You kiss him like you are trying to pour every missed night and every unsaid word into the press of your mouths. He answers with the same intensity, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other splayed wide across your lower back as if he cannot bear even an inch of distance. The living room stays quiet around you except for the soft, uneven sounds of breathing and the faint rustle of formal clothes. Neither of you pulls away. Neither of you seems capable of it.

The kiss keeps deepening, growing slower and more deliberate, the earlier desperation settling into something heavier and more intentional like the kind of kiss that makes it clear the night is far from over.

The kiss slowly breaks apart, though neither of you moves very far.

Eren keeps his forehead resting against yours, his breathing still uneven. One hand remains tangled gently in your hair while the other stays firm around your waist, holding you close. For a few seconds the apartment is quiet except for the soft sound of the two of you simply existing in the same space.

Then Eren swallows.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

You blink through the remnants of tears, looking up at him. His teal green eyes are still shining, but there is a new weight behind them like something deliberate.

“What?”

His thumb brushes slowly along your cheek, the gesture almost absent-minded, as if he needs the touch to steady himself.

“I’ve already talked to the hospital.”

You go completely still.

“What do you mean?”

“I talked to administration.” His voice is quiet now, almost hesitant, the words careful. “About the staffing situation. About how bad things have gotten. About how long it’s been like this.”

Your expression changes immediately, eyes widening.

“You did?”

He nods once.

“I told them I can’t keep doing fourteen hour or more shifts. I told them the department needs more people, and that they can’t keep relying on the same handful of doctors to cover every gap like it’s sustainable.” He exhales, looking down for a moment as if the admission still feels strange in his mouth. “They promised they’re going to hire more staff. They’re already looking at bringing in additional doctors and nurses. It’s not going to happen overnight, but…” He gives a small, tired shrug. “At least they’re finally taking it seriously.”

You stare at him, trying to absorb the fact that the conversation you have begged for months actually happened without you knowing.

His eyes meet yours again.

“I’m thinking about changing my contract.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

“I’ve been looking at other options.” His fingers tighten slightly around your waist, grounding both of you. “There are contracts with fewer hours. More predictable schedules. I’ve been considering ending my current one and negotiating something new...ummm like something that doesn’t have me working myself into the ground every single week. I wouldn’t be making as much. I’d probably have to give up some of the seniority and flexibility I have now.”

He pauses, the silence honest.

“But I’d actually be home.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. Something tight and painful loosens in your chest at the same time.

Eren gives you a faint, almost embarrassed smile, the kind that softens the sharp edges of his face.

“I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do yet. I haven’t signed anything. I’m still looking at the details.” His expression grows more serious. “But I’m thinking about it. Really thinking about it.”

You stare at him, still processing.

“Because of me?”

“Because of us.”

The answer comes immediately, without hesitation.

He lifts a hand to your face again, gently wiping away another tear that has slipped free.

“And because you’re right.”

You shake your head slightly, voice thick.

“Eren…”

“No. Let me say this.”

His tone is soft, but firm enough that you fall quiet.

“You were right that I can’t keep living like this. Maybe I convinced myself that because the patients needed me, that meant I had to be the person who stayed every single time. Every weekend. Every extra shift. Every emergency that walked through the doors.” He lets out a quiet breath. “But eventually there won’t be anything left of me to give anyone. And I don’t want you getting the leftovers.”

Eren’s eyes dropped for a second, almost like he was bracing himself.

“I didn’t tell you about this because… I wasn’t sure it would go anywhere.” His voice was quieter now. “I’ve tried before. Different ways, different people. Every time it just got shrugged off or buried under ‘we’re short-staffed, you know how it is.’ I didn’t want to come home and say, ‘I talked to them,’ only for nothing to change again. I didn’t want to give you hope I couldn’t back up yet.”

He exhaled, thumb still tracing slow circles against your side.

“And if I’m being honest… part of me was scared you’d look at me and think it was just another empty promise. That I’d say the right things, then go right back to the same fourteen-hour shifts the next week. I wanted something real to show you first. Even if it was only the beginning.”

Your lips tremble. He sees it and continues, voice lower.

“I don’t want to be the husband who comes home when he’s too exhausted to talk to his own wife. I don’t want to miss your promotions. I don’t want to find out you’re sick from your coworkers. I don’t want to hear about your life from someone else.” His voice cracks slightly on the last words. “I want you to tell me everything. The good, the boring, the messy. All of it.”

You close your eyes for a second, the weight of the night pressing and lifting at the same time.

“I want that too.”

“I know.”

His arms pull you closer until your cheek rests against his chest again. You can feel the steady, tired thump of his heart beneath the formal shirt.

“And I’m not promising I’ll suddenly become someone who leaves the hospital at five every day” he murmurs against your hair. A tiny, tired smile touches his lips. “That’s probably not realistic. But I can promise I’ll try being home early”

You let out a shaky laugh through the last of your tears.

“Good.”

“And I’ll actually take days off.”

“Good.”

“Weekends too.”

You tip your head back just enough to look at him with mild suspicion.

“Some weekends.”

He smiles faintly, the expression real this time.

“Okay. Some weekends.”

You shake your head, but this time you’re smiling too. The tension that has lived between you for days the sharp, brittle, exhausting tension, finally begins to loosen its grip.

Eren brushes his thumb beneath your eye once more, careful.

“And if the hospital doesn’t follow through?”

You wait, heart steadying.

“I’ll leave.”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Eren…”

“I’m serious.” There is no anger in his voice now. No defensiveness. Just quiet certainty. “I’ve spent years thinking leaving would mean I was abandoning people. That if I stepped back, someone would die because I wasn’t there.” He looks at you, really looks at you. “But staying somewhere that is destroying me isn’t going to save anyone forever. And I don’t want to lose my marriage trying to prove that I’m indispensable.”

Your eyes fill again. He sees it immediately and pulls you fully against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“Hey.”

You bury your face against him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin and the faint trace of the cologne he wore for the gala.

“I’m proud of you” you whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

His arms tighten around you, the hold almost fierce.

“I’m not doing this because I want you to stop being angry with me.”

“I know.”

“I’m doing it because I finally understand.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, lingering there. “I want a life with you, Y/n. A real one. Not the leftover hours between emergencies.”

Your arms tighten around him in answer.

“Then come home.”

His eyes close. The words settle between you like something solid.

“I will.”

There is no more space for words after that.

You stay pressed against him, forehead resting against his collarbone, just breathing. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head. Neither of you moves for a long moment. The tension slowly eases. And for the first time tonight, there is a sense of peace between you.

You stand at the dresser in the soft bedroom light, the emerald silk of the dress still clinging to your body. The mirror reflects the two of you, your carefully done hair beginning to loosen, the deep neckline, the faint traces of the night still on your skin. You reach up to unfasten the first diamond earring, the metal cool against your fingertips. Makeup wipes wait on the polished wood beside your open jewelry box. Behind you, Eren is close enough that you can feel the heat of him even before he speaks. He is already out of his jacket, white shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he is talking about something ordinary, some ridiculous hospital story about an intern who had panicked over a simple IV start and his voice low and almost easy for the first time in days.

“That intern almost killed me today” he says.

You glance at him through the mirror. “What did you do?”

“Apparently I traumatized him.”

“That sounds more likely.”

He gives you a look. “He couldn't get the IV.”

“Ah.”

“Third try. And he finally gets it, then looks at me like he's waiting for me to tell him whether he's still allowed to be a doctor.”

You laugh softly. “And what did you say?”

“I told him to stop staring at me and go chart it.”

“You're terrible eren.”

“He was fine.”

“You're still terrible.”

“I know.”

His mouth twitches into a smile, and just like that, the conversation drifts into something else, another story, another stupid complaint about the hospital, the kind of pointless back-and-forth the two of you have had a hundred times before.

Everything feels so... normal

The ordinary conversation feels like a quiet miracle after everything that has been said.

But then your phone lights up on the dresser surface. Both of you look at the screen at the same time.

Dean.

The name sits there in clean white letters, the soft vibration of the incoming call the only sound in the room for a second. You frown, the earring still pinched between your fingers. It is late, well past the hour when a coworker should be calling. Your thumb hovers over the screen, the internal debate quick and sharp: answer and risk another complication, or let it go to voicemail and deal with whatever it is tomorrow.

Why the hell is he even calling?

Before you can decide, the ringing stops.

The screen goes dark again.

Eren’s reflection in the mirror sharpens. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet but edged, the earlier softness replaced by something cooler and far more possessive.

“What the hell does Dean want at this hour?” He steps in behind you until his chest is flush against your back, the solid heat of him impossible to ignore. His hands settle lightly on your waist, fingers spreading over the silk. “He was orbiting you all night. Too close. Only looking at you, not even acknowledging my presence. Had the balls to flirt with my wife while I was standing right there.” He says as he rolls his eyes hard.

You let out a small, surprised laugh, the sound soft and almost fond despite the residual tension of the night. Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

“Dean is always like that” you say, setting the earring down. “It’s just… him. The charm, the compliments, the leaning in. It’s how he talks to everyone. I don’t think he even realizes half the time.”

The explanation does the exact opposite of what you intended.

Eren’s eyes darken in the glass. The jealousy that had been simmering since the ballroom flares hotter, more focused. His hands tighten on your waist, then slide upward in a slow, deliberate drag, palms mapping the curve of your ribs through the thin fabric. He lowers his head until his mouth finds the side of your neck. right over the place where your pulse is still a little too fast.

The first kiss is open mouthed and hungry.

Heat blooms instantly beneath his lips. You feel the soft pressure of his mouth, the slight scrape of stubble against your skin, and a shiver races down your spine that has nothing to do with the cool air of the room. Your breath catches; the earring is forgotten as your free hand braces against the edge of the dresser for balance. The silk of the dress suddenly feels too thin, almost nonexistent where his body presses against yours.

He works a slow path upward toward the hinge of your jaw, teeth scraping lightly, tongue tasting the faint salt of your skin. Each kiss lands hotter than the last. One hand stays at your waist while the other rises higher, cupping the underside of your breast through the silk, thumb brushing deliberately across the peak until it tightens under his touch. The sensation is sharp and sweet, your nipple draws tight against the fabric, a bright spark of feeling that shoots straight down between your legs. You inhale sharply, hips shifting almost without thought, and a low warmth already beginning to pool low in your belly.

He keeps kissing, nipping, dragging his mouth along the sensitive skin just below your ear while his hand continues its unhurried exploration. Every slow drag of his thumb sends another ripple of heat through you. Your skin feels too tight, too alive. The dress is suddenly an unwanted barrier; you can feel the heat of his palm through the thin material, the way your body answers him without hesitation.

When he speaks again, the words are murmured against your throat, warm and rough and unmistakably jealous.

“What else does he get away with at work, Y/n?”

The question is quiet, almost conversational, but there is nothing casual in the way he is touching you. His free hand finds the zipper at the back of the dress and draws it down in one long, continuous slide. The silk loosens, gaping open along your spine. Cool air kisses the newly exposed skin a second before his palm replaces it, sliding inside the open back of the dress to stroke the bare length of your back from nape to the base of your spine.

The contrast makes you shiver, the cool air and then the solid heat of his hand. His palm is broad and warm, fingers spreading possessively as they travel down the bare line of your spine. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. You feel every ridge of his fingertips, the slow, deliberate pressure as he maps the soft skin he hasn’t touched enough lately. A soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.

He kisses the newly bared curve of your shoulder, then the soft place where neck meets collarbone, the pressure of his mouth growing hungrier with every second. His hips press forward, the hard line of his arousal unmistakable against the curve of your ass even through the layers of formal fabric. The contact is deliberate, its possessive and it sends a low, liquid heat flooding between your legs. You can feel yourself growing wet already, the soft silk of your underwear beginning to cling where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction that isn’t quite enough.

“Tell me” he murmurs, voice darker now, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hand inside the dress slides around to the front. His palm settles over your stomach before drifting lower, fingers spreading possessively across the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear. The warmth of his hand on your bare belly makes your muscles tighten. You feel the slow, intentional path of his fingers, the way they pause just above where you need them most, and a restless ache builds between your thighs.

“Does he hover over your desk like that when you’re buried in numbers? Does he lean in the same way when no one’s looking? Does he look at you the way he did tonight when he thinks I’m not paying attention?”

His fingers slip beneath the edge of the fabric, slow and intentional, and the first deliberate stroke against your already sensitive skin makes your breath catch hard in your throat. Heat flares sharp and sudden. You feel the slick evidence of your own arousal under his fingertips, the way your body opens for him without resistance. His touch is light at first, teasing, almost reverent, before he presses more firmly, circling the swollen bud of your clit with a slow, knowing pressure that makes your knees soften.

In the mirror you can see the two of you, his darker head bent to your neck, his hand disappearing inside the open back of your dress, the way your body has already started to lean back into him. Your lips parted, eyes half-lidded. Every slow drag of his fingers sends another pulse of liquid heat through you, coiling tighter low in your belly. The jealousy is no longer only in his words. It is in every kiss, every slow stroke, every low sound he makes against your skin as he reclaims the space between the two of you after too many nights of distance and ofcourse your body answers him with nothing but yes.

The emerald dress now has already slipped from your shoulders.

It pools in a soft, expensive heap around your ankles, the silk cool and slippery against your bare calves. You are left standing in front of the dresser in nothing but a dark lace bra and matching underwear, the mirror reflecting every inch of newly exposed skin. Your skin prickles in the cooler air, every nerve feels too close to the surface, already humming from the way he’s been touching you.

“Hmm?” His voice is low and rough against the shell of your ear. “I’m still waiting.”

His fingers find your nipple through the thin lace of the bra and pinch. firm, deliberate, rolling the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger until the sharp spark of sensation shoots straight down your spine and lands hot between your legs. A broken moan slips out of you before you can stop it, your head tipping back against his shoulder as your hands tighten on the edge of the dresser. The lace is rough against the suddenly tight bud of your nipple; every small twist of his fingers makes it ache in the best way, a bright, stinging pleasure that radiates outward until your whole breast feels heavy and swollen in his palm.

“N-no, he—”

The rest of the denial never makes it out.

Eren’s other hand, already inside the front of your underwear, presses hard and sudden against your clit. The pressure is exact, unyielding. The moan that rips from your throat is louder this time raw and involuntary. Your hips jerk forward into his hand even as your knees threaten to buckle. Wetness floods out of you instantly, coating his fingers, soaking the lace of your underwear until it clings obscenely to your folds. You can feel how slick you already are, the shameful, dirty evidence of it unmistakable against his skin as he continues to stroke you openly now that the dress is gone.

In the mirror his eyes are locked on your reflection, dark and hungry, watching every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.

“He what?” he asks, the mockery soft and dangerous.

You try again, breath already uneven, thighs trembling.

“I—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His thumb begins to move in slow, circles over your clit, the wetness already slick and filthy against his skin. At the same time his other hand works your nipple in turn through the lace, pinching, tugging, rolling them with the exact amount of pressure that makes your breath stutter and your cunt clench emptily around nothing. The dual assault is relentless. Every circle of his thumb sends another thick pulse of heat between your legs; every sharp pinch at your breasts pulls another helpless, broken sound from your throat. Your clit feels swollen and oversensitive under his thumb, each slow drag making your hips twitch and roll, chasing more friction even as the intensity borders on too much.

“You what, baby?” Eren murmurs, the words thick with dark amusement. He leans in and bites the side of your neck, not hard but enough to mark, but firm enough that the sting blooms hot beneath his teeth. His tongue follows immediately, soothing the place he just bit while his hands never stop their slow, devastating work. The contrast...sharp pain, then wet heat, then the relentless circling of his thumb over your dripping clit, it makes your head spin.

In the mirror the two of you look wrecked already: the emerald dress in a discarded pool at your feet, your body bare except for the dark lace still clinging to your breasts and hips, his hand buried between your thighs, your head thrown back against his shoulder, lips parted around soft, broken sounds you can’t seem to swallow. Your reflection shows flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, the way your mouth keeps falling open every time his thumb presses just a little harder. His reflection watches you the entire time, eyes never leaving your face as he continues to stroke and pinch and bite, drawing every reaction out of you with ruthless patience.

“Keep talking” he says against your skin, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “I’m right here.”

You are so wet it is almost embarrassing, and the knowledge that he can feel every filthy drop of it only makes your pussy clench harder around nothing, aching to be filled.

You can’t take it anymore.

The long drought of nights without his hands on you has left you aching and oversensitive; every deliberate stroke and pinch has only sharpened the need until it borders on painful. The empty pulse between your legs so sharp it almost hurts.

“Eren—more” you choke out, the word raw and desperate.

The second the plea leaves your mouth, he stops completely.

His hand withdraws from your underwear in one smooth motion, leaving you sudden and aching. The loss is so sharp you actually whine..an involuntary, needy sound that would have embarrassed you under any other circumstances. You turn in his arms, still trapped by the pool of emerald silk around your ankles, ready to demand he put his hands back where they belong.

You never get the chance to speak.

Eren’s hand closes around the front of your throat, firm, possessive, the pressure exact and he drags you into a kiss that is nothing like the earlier, almost careful one. This is hungry. This is claiming. He kisses you like he is starving, mouth open and demanding, tongue sliding against yours with zero restraint. It is the kind of kiss that feels like being eaten alive in the best possible way: deep, wet, relentless. You taste the faint salt of your own skin on his lips from where he was biting your neck. His free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

You try to guide the hand on your hip downward, fingers wrapping around his wrist and attempting to push it between your thighs where the ache is worst. But he doesn’t allow it. He slaps your hand away hard enough to sting, then delivers a sharp, open handed slap directly against your pussy through the soaked lace of your underwear. The sudden sting blooms into white hot pleasure; a loud, shocked moan tears out of you and is immediately swallowed by his mouth. The impact vibrates straight through your swollen clit.

He finally pulls back from the kiss, both of you breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, the teal almost swallowed by black. Without warning he lowers his head and bites the side of your neck, harder this time, teeth sinking in just shy of breaking skin. The sharp pain mixes with the lingering heat between your legs and makes your knees weaken.

“You’ve been testing me tonight, haven’t you?” he murmurs against the fresh mark, voice low and mocking. He bites again, a little higher, then soothes the spot with his tongue. The contrast of sharp teeth, then wet heat, makes your whole body shudder. “Raising your voice. Keeping things from me. Letting that frog look at you like he had any claim.”

He stops biting and lifts his head so he can see your face. His hand is still around your throat, the pressure firm enough that each breath is controlled by him. His thumb rests against your pulse, feeling how hard and fast it races.

You can only nod, eyes glassy, lips parted and swollen from the kiss.

Eren’s hands move to the clasp at your back without a word. One practiced twist and the bra loosens. He draws the straps down your arms slowly, and lets the lace fall to join the dress on the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts a second before his palms replace it, warm and possessive, thumbs brushing over the already tight peaks.

“Bed. Now.”

He says it like a command that has been held back too long.

His voice is rough, scraped raw with need, and he doesn’t wait for your answer. Strong hands slide under you, not rough, never careless, but with the kind of urgent certainty that says he has denied himself this for far too many nights. He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, carries you the few steps to the bed, and lays you down on the cool sheets with a care that somehow makes the hunger in him feel even sharper.

His clothes are still half on him... the open collar of his shirt, the trousers that have been teasing the hard line of his cock. Your lace is still on you, the delicate fabric already soaked through and clinging to every swollen fold. He doesn’t bother stripping either of you further. He simply climbs over you, knees bracketing your hips, and looks down for a long, heavy second.

His eyes are dark, almost reverent. Like he is trying to memorize the exact way you look right now, flushed, breathing hard, already ruined for him.

Then he lowers his head.

The first press of his mouth is broad and filthy. His tongue drags over the soaked lace, tasting how wet you already are, how thoroughly you have ruined the fabric for him. You jolt, a broken sound tearing from your throat. He does it again, slower this time, pressing the lace tight against your clit with the flat of his tongue, then sealing his lips around the swollen bud and sucking through the material until your hips lift helplessly off the bed.

He stays there, working you through the thin barrier, until you are shaking, thighs trembling, soft desperate sounds falling from your lips. Only then does he hook his fingers in the waistband and drag the underwear down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He tosses it aside without looking, never taking his eyes off the glistening, flushed pussy he has just uncovered.

He settles between your thighs properly this time, no more barriers, nothing between his mouth and the soft, dripping heat of you. The first real stroke of his tongue against your bare skin is devastating. Long, slow, filthy licks from your entrance all the way up to your clit, tasting every bit of how wet you are for him. Then he focuses, relentless, circling and sucking the swollen little bud with a hunger that feels almost worshipful.

One of his hands pins your hip firmly to the mattress, holding you open for him. The other slides two thick fingers into you without warning, curling immediately against that perfect spot that makes your vision blur and your back arch hard. The dual stimulation is overwhelming after the long drought, his tongue working your clit with devastating precision while his fingers stroke deep and steady inside you.

You orgasm faster than you expect.

A raw, startled cry tears out of you as your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing and fluttering, your clit throbbing under the relentless pressure of his tongue. He works you through it without mercy, drawing every last shiver and aftershock out of you, only slowing when the oversensitivity makes you try to twist away. Even then he stays close, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the trembling insides of your thighs, grounding you while your breathing shudders back toward something resembling calm.

He finally lifts his head, lips glistening, and wipes his mouth slowly on the soft skin of your inner thigh, an intimate, almost tender gesture that somehow feels dirtier than anything else. Then he climbs up your body, the hard, heavy line of his cock still trapped behind the fabric of his trousers, straining against the material as he settles over you.

His eyes meet yours.

And the look in them says he is nowhere near finished with you.

You pull him down into a kiss before either of you can speak. It is slower this time, deep, lingering, full of everything the night has already stripped bare. When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves far. You stay close enough that your noses almost brush, eyes locked. In the soft bedroom light you can see it all reflected back at you: the love that never actually left, the raw relief of finally being here again, the quiet, mutual ache of how long it has been. The same things live in his teal green eyes as they search yours. Your chest feels tight with it, heart beating hard against his. 

He holds your gaze the entire time.

Eren sits back on his heels between your spread thighs, still fully dressed from the waist down, the hard length of him straining obscenely against the front of his trousers. His eyes never leave yours as his hands lift to the open collar of his shirt. One by one, he begins working the remaining buttons free... slow, and the soft click of each one loud in the quiet room.

The fabric parts gradually, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his stomach, the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall somewhere behind him without looking away from you for even a second. The intensity in his eyes is almost unbearable, dark, focused, like he is daring you to look anywhere else while he undresses for you.

His hands move to his belt next.

The leather slides free with a soft hiss. The button of his trousers comes undone, then the zipper, the sound low and intimate. He rises just enough to push the trousers down his hips and kick them aside, still never breaking that steady, burning eye contact. The thick outline of his cock is even more obvious now, trapped only by the dark fabric of his underwear, the head already leaving a damp spot where it presses against the material.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband.

For a moment he simply holds there, looking down at you, flushed, bare, still trembling faintly from the orgasm he just pulled out of you.. while you look up at him. Then, with the same unhurried control, he drags the underwear down.

His cock springs free, heavy and flushed, the head glistening. He kicks the last scrap of clothing away and settles back over you on his knees, completely bare now, the heat of his body radiating against yours. His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, his gaze hungry, reverent, and utterly unrelenting, as if he wants you to feel every second of him choosing to strip himself open for you.

Only when he is fully naked does he lean down, one hand bracing beside your head, the other sliding possessively along your thigh, and murmur, voice rough with restraint,

“Still looking at me, love?” You just nod weakly.

Eren shifts his weight, settling more fully between your thighs. One hand slides down to guide himself; you feel the thick, blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, already slick. He doesn’t push in. He stays right there, rocking the slightest bit so the head slides up through your folds and over your oversensitive clit before returning to notch against you again. The teasing is deliberate and merciless. You’re so wet the slide is filthy, easy, the head of him glistening with your arousal as he keeps rubbing it over you like he has all the time in the world. You clench around nothing, empty and desperate, the emptiness almost painful after how thoroughly he worked you open with his fingers.

A frustrated little whine escapes you, hips twitching up to try and catch him.

The sound only makes the corner of his mouth lift into a cheeky, knowing grin.

“I hate you” you mumble, the words completely unconvincing, voice already breathy and wrecked.

His grin widens, eyes crinkling at the corners for the first time all night.

“Mhmm” he murmurs, voice warm and rough. “And I love you.”

In the same breath he pushes forward.

The stretch is immediate and intense. Even as wet and ready as you are, it has been long enough that your body has to remember how to take him. The thick head breaches you slowly, forcing your walls to part around the blunt pressure, and the sensation is so overwhelming you can’t stop the broken sound that leaves your throat. He sinks in slowly inch by inch.. every ridge and vein dragging against your sensitive inner walls, stretching you wider, deeper, until the burn melts into a full, heavy ache that sits right at the edge of too much. You feel every single inch of him claiming space inside you, the way your pussy has to stretch and flutter and accept him. By the time he is fully seated, hips flush against yours, the pressure is deep and overwhelming, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. A shared, shaky exhale leaves both of you at the same time. For a moment he simply stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead resting against yours while your bodies adjust to each other again. The fullness is dizzying. Perfect. Filthy.

Then he begins to move.

The first few thrusts are measured and deep, almost careful, letting you feel every ridge and inch of him dragging against your inner walls. The wet sound of it fills the quiet room, obscene, slick, the sound of how soaked you are for him. You wrap your legs higher around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer, needing him deeper. He answers by rolling his hips harder, angling so that every stroke grinds against the spot that makes your breath catch and your toes curl. One of his hands finds yours and pins it to the mattress beside your head; the other braces beside your shoulder as he finds a steady, powerful rhythm.

It is not rushed. It is thorough.

Every thrust has full withdrawal until only the head remains, the sudden emptiness making you clench and whimper, then a deep, claiming slide back in that forces a soft, broken sound from your throat. The friction is perfect, the stretch still present enough to edge toward too much and then melt into pure, liquid heat. His breathing grows heavier against your cheek. His mouth finds the side of your neck, then your jaw, then your mouth again in open, messy kisses that match the pace of his hips, wet, open mouthed, tongues sliding together while he fucks into you deep and slow.

“Missed this” he rasps against your lips. “Missed the way you take me. Missed how tight you get around me like you never want to let go.”

You answer with another kiss, fingers tightening in his, free hand sliding up into his hair to hold him closer. The bed creaks softly beneath the steady, deep rhythm he sets. Sweat begins to slick the places where your bodies meet, his chest sliding against your breasts, the wet heat of his skin, the filthy slap of his hips against yours. Every time he bottoms out, the base of his cock grinds against your swollen clit and sends another bright, almost unbearable spark of pleasure through you. The earlier orgasm has left you sensitive; the new one is already building fast, coiling low and tight in your belly, each deep thrust winding it tighter.

Eren feels it. He shifts the angle slightly, driving deeper, harder, the controlled restraint of the first minutes giving way to something more urgent. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder, amd messy, rhythmic, the sound of how thoroughly he’s fucking you. Your moans spill freely now, no longer swallowed or muffled, high and broken as he hits that spot over and over. He watches your face the entire time.

“That’s it” he murmurs, voice strained, almost ruined. “Take every inch. Just like that. Fuck, you feel perfect. So tight. So wet for me. Look at you—taking me like you were built for it.”

“You are, aren’t you?” You just nod weakly at that.

He keeps going, deep, steady, claiming strokes that make the headboard knock softly against the wall pouring every missed night and every unspoken I-love-you into the way he moves inside you. Every thrust forces another broken sound from your throat.

Eren’s thrusts stay deep and steady as he speaks, the words broken by the rhythm of his hips.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there” he rasps against your mouth. “Fuck—I missed you, baby. Missed you so much it hurt.”

He seals the apology with a rough, possessive kiss, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to sting.

“Hated how that frog was looking at you tonight. Like he had a shot.” He drives into you harder on the next thrust, the impact forcing a wet, filthy sound from between your bodies. “You’re mine.”

His mouth drops to the side of your neck and he bites down, sucking hard enough to leave another deep, unmistakable mark. You are so close, right on the edge, every stroke pushing you higher, the pressure coiling low and tight in your belly like a spring about to snap.

“Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

You can’t form the words. Your mind has gone blank, reduced to the thick stretch of him, the pressure building low in your belly, the way every thrust forces soft, broken sounds out of you. You are being fucked past coherent thought and he knows it.

Without warning he pulls out completely.

The sudden emptiness makes you cry out, a desperate, shameless whine leaving your throat. You don’t care how it sounds. Your pussy clenches around nothing, the sudden loss so sharp it almost hurts, empty and aching and dripping onto the sheets.

Eren looks down at you, chest heaving, a dark smirk on his lips.

“So damn desperate.” The mockery is soft and filthy. “Already whining. Look how wet you are, dripping for me even when I’m not inside you.”

You only manage another needy sound, hips twitching up uselessly.

“Say it” he commands again, firmer this time. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I—I’m yours, Eren,” you force out, voice wrecked, almost sobbing with need. “I love you—”

“Good girl.”

In one smooth motion he flips you onto your stomach, then pulls your hips up so you are on all fours. A sharp, open-handed smack lands on your ass, the sting blooming hot across your skin. Then goes another, a firm slap lands on the other cheek, the heat of it spreading, the sharp pain mixing with the hollow ache between your legs until you’re trembling.

“I’m soo gone for you. So damn gone—” he growls, delivering another firm slap, “and you thought I had someone else at the hospital?”

Before you can answer he lines up and thrusts back into you from behind in one powerful stroke. The new angle is deeper, more intense; the air leaves your lungs in a broken moan as the thick head of him forces its way back inside, stretching you open all over again. The sudden fullness is overwhelming so deep you feel it in your stomach, the pressure almost too much. Eren’s own groan is loud and unrestrained as he bottoms out, the wet slap of his hips against your ass filthy and loud.

“Fuck, baby—I love you. Only you.”

He sets a hard, relentless pace, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into you. Every thrust is deep and punishing, the thick length of him dragging against your front wall, the wet, squelching sounds of how soaked you are filling the room. After a few more thrusts he leans forward, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat and pull you back against his chest so your back is flush to him. The new position lets him drive even deeper while his mouth finds your ear. The pressure of his hand on your throat is firm but controlled, just enough to make your head spin, every breath a little tighter, every moan vibrating against his palm.

“I’m yours, Y/n” he pants, voice cracking with emotion and pleasure. “I’m yours. All fucking yours.”

The combination of the words, the possessive grip on your throat, and the deep, punishing strokes sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, a raw cry tearing from your throat as your arms threaten to give out. Pleasure rips through you in sharp, overwhelming pulses, your cunt fluttering and squeezing around his cock like it’s trying to milk him, your whole body shaking. Eren fucks you through it without slowing, dragging every last tremor out of you until you are shaking and oversensitive, every thrust making you whimper from the intensity.

He is close now, you can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, in the desperate sounds starting to slip from him, in the way his cock throbs harder inside you. He pulls out only long enough to flip you back onto your back, settling between your thighs again and sinking into you in one smooth thrust. The sudden return of that thick stretch makes you cry out again, walls still fluttering from your orgasm. Missionary lets him see your face again, and the sight seems to undo him further. Soft, almost broken moans and whimpers leave him with every stroke. His forehead drops to yours, hips working in deep, erratic thrusts as he chases his own release. You can feel how close he is by the way his cock swells even thicker, the desperate, uneven rhythm, the way his breath hitches against your mouth.

“Love you—fuck, love you so much—”

He kisses you deeply, messily, pouring everything into the contact as his rhythm finally breaks. With a low, guttural groan he cums hard, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you in long, hot waves. You feel every throb, every thick spurt of him filling you, the heat of it flooding deep, the way your oversensitive walls flutter around him as he empties himself inside you. He keeps kissing you through it, arms locked tight around you like he never wants to let go, still grinding shallowly as the last pulses of his orgasm wrack through him.

For a long moment the only sounds in the room are your shared, uneven breathing.

You both stay exactly where you are, still joined, chests rising and falling hard against each other. The room is quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing which is slowing now, evening out, the frantic edge of the night finally softening into something quieter. Eren’s forehead rests against yours; his eyes, those familiar teal green eyes, are open and unguarded, searching yours with a softness that feels almost more intimate than everything that just happened. There is no performance left in them. No walls. Just the quiet, steady truth of someone who has finally stopped running from what he almost lost.

Neither of you speaks at first.

The anger that started the night, the jealousy, the months of distance and silence, all of it feels far away now, burned down into something quieter and more honest. You can still feel him inside you, the slow, gentle pulse of him as he softens, the faint, sweet ache of how thoroughly he just took you. But the physical is only part of it. What settles between you in the aftermath is heavier and more precious: the recognition of how close you came to losing this, and the fragile, luminous relief of still having it.

Eren lifts a hand and brushes damp strands of hair away from your face, the touch careful, almost reverent. His thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, tracing the soft edge of your lower lip as if memorizing it. The gentleness of it after the intensity of everything else makes your throat tighten.

“I almost let us break” he says quietly, voice still rough from earlier, but threaded now with something raw and open. “I kept telling myself the hospital needed me more. That you’d understand. That there would always be time later.” His eyes stay locked on yours, unflinching. “There almost wasn’t. And that scared the shit out of me tonight.”

You nod slowly, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of stubble, the warmth of his skin. Your own voice comes out soft, steady despite the emotion rising in your chest.

“I almost let us break too” you admit. “I got so used to protecting myself from the disappointment that I stopped giving you the chance to show up. I made decisions for both of us. I closed the door before you even had the chance to knock. That was wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for blaming you for everything, especially knowing that there’s only so much you can do.”

He exhales, a long, shaky breath that seems to carry the last of the night’s tension with it. Then he shifts carefully, withdrawing from you with a slow, deliberate care that feels like its own kind of tenderness. He rolls to the side just enough to pull you with him so you are tucked against his chest, your head resting over the steady beat of his heart. One arm stays wrapped securely around your waist; the other strokes slow, absent patterns along your spine, his fingertips tracing the curve of your back as if he needs the constant reminder that you are still here, still real, still his.

“We both messed up” he murmurs into your hair, the words warm against your temple. “Badly. But I don’t want to keep score. I just… I don’t want to go back to the version of us that only existed in the margins of my shifts. I want the version where I come home to you.”

You press a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart, lingering there for a moment as if sealing the promise into his skin.

“Me neither.”

For a while you simply lie there, skin cooling, limbs tangled, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear. The clothes are still scattered across the floor, his shirt discarded near the foot of the bed, your emerald dress a forgotten pool of silk near the dresser. Makeup is ruined. Hair is a mess. None of it matters. The room smells of sex and sweat and the faint, familiar scent of his cologne clinging to your skin. Moonlight filters through the half drawn curtains, painting soft silver across the sheets and the curve of his shoulder. Everything feels quiet in a way it hasn’t in months, quiet enough that you can finally hear each other again.

“We’ll figure the rest out” he says, voice soft but certain. “The hours. The hospital. All of it. Together this time. No more deciding alone. No more assuming the other person will just wait. We do it side by side.”

You nod, eyes slipping closed as the last of the adrenaline finally drains away, leaving only the solid warmth of him and the quiet certainty that, for the first time in a long time, you are both actually here. His fingers keep tracing slow paths along your spine. Your hand rests over his heart, feeling it beat steady and sure. 

you don’t know what comes next.

You don’t know how long it will take for the hospital to actually hire more staff, or whether the new contract will work out the way he hopes. You don’t know if the next late night or the next emergency will still sting the same way. Things aren’t suddenly fixed. The distance didn’t disappear just because you finally said everything out loud. Healing isn’t that clean.

But you love him.

You understand him better now, the weight he carries, the fear that keeps him staying longer than he should, the way the job is built to make him feel like he can never step away without blood on his hands. And you trust the promise he made tonight. Not because it guarantees everything will be easy, but because for the first time in a long time, you believe he means it.

Things won’t change overnight. You both know that.

But you’re sure that they will change. Gradually. Imperfectly. Together.

And right now, lying against his chest with his arms around you and the night finally still, that is enough.

You’re glad you found your way back to each other.

Even if the road ahead is still uncertain… you’re glad.