The house was quiet when I returned from work. Too quiet. Tristan wasn't back yet. Relief washed over me, but it wasn't the kind of relief that lasted. It was temporary, a momentary reprieve from the tension that had been hanging between us. I was glad to be alone, but at the same time, that emptiness felt heavy, like something was missing.

I shrugged off my coat, notwithstanding, and kicked off my shoes. Each step toward the stairs felt heavier than the last, as if I was sinking into the floor. I was so drained, so exhausted that my body ached with every movement. All I wanted was the hot embrace of a shower to wash away the weight of the day—and maybe, just for a moment, the suffocating reality of everything that had become my life.

The bedroom was exactly as I'd left it, empty. I barely glanced at it before making my way to the bathroom. The scalding water in the shower was a brief solace. The heat seared into my skin, grounding me. I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me and loosen the knots in my muscles.

Afterward, I pulled one of my old baggy t-shirts over my head and padded down the stairs. The cool air against my damp skin was refreshing. I headed to the kitchen, suddenly feeling a craving for something cold and sweet. A smoothie. Yes, that would do it.

I moved mechanically through the kitchen, pulling out strawberries, a banana, and almond milk. As I gathered everything onto the counter and made my mix, my thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the woman in Ward 7. There was something about her that tugged at the edges of my memory, like a half-remembered dream. I had seen her before, I was certain of it, but no matter how hard I tried to place her, the memory slipped away like smoke through my fingers.

The loud whiz of the blender buzzed in the background, a strange comfort in the otherwise quiet house. I watched as the blades whirred, reducing the fruit to a smooth, sweet mixture. It was a distraction, drowning out the chaos that buzzed in my head.

When the blending stopped, I turned to fetch a glass from one of the cabinets, but as I reached for the door, I heard an unexpected loud crash echo from the living room.

I froze mid-air, my heart lurching in my chest.

A low grunt followed, sharp and pained. Then came a second crash, louder this time, and Tristan's voice—cursing, slurred and rough—rang through.

My stomach twisted in knots. I quickly rushed out of the Kitchen and rounded the corner to the living room, but the sight I met made my heart clench.

Ryder grunted, struggling to keep Tristan's barely conscious form from collapsing completely. One arm was wrapped tight around his body, holding him up, while the other gripped his jacket and bag.

My chest tightened painfully as I took it all in. He was wasted, his body limp, swaying as if it had forgotten how to stand. He wasn't just a little tipsy, but completely out of it. The kind of drunk that made me sick to my stomach just looking at him.

And the stench. Oh God. The sharp stench of alcohol hit me like a wave, sour and bitter, filling the room with its heavy, choking presence.

"How could you let this happen?" I asked, my voice trembling as I stepped forward, my gaze darting between them. "Why did you let him get like this?"

Ryder's face was a tight mask, unreadable. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Tristan swayed dangerously and almost toppled over. Without thinking, I lunged forward, grabbing his arm to help steady him before he fell flat on his face.

He slumped against me, his weight pressing down on me with alarming heaviness. And then, to my complete shock, he nuzzled into my neck, inhaling deeply. "Sienna..." he slurred, his voice thick with drunken affection. A goofy grin spread across his lips. "You smell... mmmm... daisies."

I shot Ryder a helpless, exasperated look.

He shook his head, resigned. "Let's get him upstairs."

I nodded. "Right, yes."

With Tristan practically draped over both of us, we started the awkward shuffle up the stairs, one step at a time. He wasn't making it easy, stumbling over his own feet and mumbling incoherent nonsense under his breath. By the time we reached the bedroom, I was breathless and my arms were aching from supporting his weight. We finally managed to lay him down on the bed where he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Ryder wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, clearly exhausted. I straightened up and exhaled deeply, running a hand through my hair. "I'll take it from here," I said. "You can go."

He looked at me, seeming reluctant to leave. "I should stay."

"And do what?" I asked crossly. "You think you can do any better than his wife?"

He pursed his lip, hesitating for a moment longer. Then, with a small, reluctant nod, he shuffled out, closing the door softly behind him.

The silence settled. I turned, staring at Tristan. He was a complete wreck, his clothes disheveled, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The sight of him so utterly wasted, so unlike the strong, confident man I knew, hurt, and a part of me wanted to be angry, to scream at him for getting into this state, but another part of me—the part that still loved him despite everything—just felt shattered.

With a sigh, I knelt down beside the bed and started with the easy part: his shoes.

I tugged them off, one by one. As I moved to drag off his socks, he giggled. It was a sound so out of place, it almost startled me.

"That tickles," he slurred, pulling one leg away like a playful child.

"Stay put," I urged, grabbing his foot and wrestling the sock off.

He wiggled his toes at me, letting out another absurd giggle. "It tickles!"

Unbelievable.

I yanked the other sock off, ignoring his silly protest. I then leaned over to unbuckle his belt.

"Ooooh," he drawled, his voice slow and syrupy. "Are you going to sleep with me now?"

I paused for a second and shot him a look. "In your dreams, Romeo."

He snickered when I tugged down his pants. "My dick is hard. Very—mm, hard. It wants to sleep with you. Forever. It wants...your—mm...warm, sweet...pussy."

Oh, Lord.

My face burned so fast I thought I might actually catch fire. "Do me a favor and shut up."

His eyes opened halfway. "I think my brain is trying to escape my body."

"Shut. Up."

He paused for a beat. "Can I pee in your mouth?"

My jaw dropped. "Tristan!"

He grinned. "Shutting up now."

God, help me.

With his pants off, I reached for his shirt next, undoing the buttons one by one. Just as I started to pull the shirt off his shoulders, his arms suddenly shot out and wrapped around me, pulling me down into his chest.

"What are you doing!" I snapped, struggling against his grip, but he was surprisingly strong despite being so drunk.

He buried his face in my neck again, nuzzling into me like I was his pillow. "You smell so nice," he whispered against my skin. "Like daisies, like... like home."

My heart melted right there. Despite everything—the mess, the drunkenness—he could still undo me. My throat tightened. Damn him. Damn these pregnancy hormones.

I fought to keep the tears at bay as I tried to pry myself out of his grasp, but he clung to me like a koala. His skin was hot, his face flushed—not just from the booze, but also from what was probably a fever. This man needed to cool down, pronto.

"I'm going to run you a bath," I said, finally squirming free and already turning away to—

Smack!

I froze, eyes wide, my face turning about fifty shades of red.

Did he just...

He snickered behind me. "Fat ass."

I blinked at the ceiling, contemplating every life decision that led to this moment. Nope. I couldn't do this. I wouldn't do this.

I escaped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet in the bath, watching it fill up with lukewarm water. This was exhausting. He was exhausting. Maybe I should have just let Ryder stay. As I adjusted the water, I heard Tristan whining again behind me.

"Siennaaaa..."

I mentally groaned and turned just in time to see him stumble into the bathroom.

"There...mm...you are." He attempted to walk toward me but ended up taking a sharp left turn into the towel rack instead.

"I... I meant to do that," he muttered, trying to stand upright while half the towel was now on the floor.

I sighed. "Of course you did."

He clutched his stomach. "I don't feel so good..."

"You'll survive."

"No. I think... I think I'm gonna—" He didn't finish the sentence before he suddenly lurched forward and barfed into the sink.

Oh my God. Panic surged in my chest as I shot up and hurried over to his side.

He was vomiting so hard it sounded like his entire body was giving up on him. My heart ached. I rubbed his back, unsure of how else to help.

When he finally stopped, he leaned heavily against the sink, pale and trembling. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy. "Why does everything hurt?"

"Because you drank enough to sink a ship," I chid, gently turning on the tap to wash the evidence of his bad decisions. "You'll feel better after a bath."

"I don't wanna bathe," he grumbled, wiping his mouth with a pathetic pout.

"You need to," I insisted.

"Only if you join me."

I hesitated, but the look in his eyes... I couldn't say no. "Okay," I agreed softly. "But you have to get in first."

He nodded weakly. "Okay."

I undressed him the rest of the way and guided him towards the tub. I helped him step in, trying to be as gentle as possible. His body sagged with relief as soon as he sank into the water and his eyes fluttered close.

"It's not too cold, is it?" I asked, gazing down at him.

He opened his eyes just a sliver and gave a small nod. "It feels good."

I undressed quickly and slipped in on the other side, trying to give him some space, but Tristan reached for me, pulling me into his lap, his arms wrapping around me securely.

"Tristan..." I started to protest, but he buried his face in my neck.

"I just... I want to hold you," he whispered. "Let me hold you."

The raw need in his voice unraveled me. I let him hold me, my heart aching for him—for the man I loved who was so lost right now.

After a while, I dipped his sponge into the water and tenderly ran it over his skin, washing the sweat and grime away. As the water poured over him, he exhaled deeply, his eyes closing again.

The room seemed to hold its breath as we sat there, intertwined in each other's arms.

"My head hurts," he murmured after a moment, his breath tickling my ear. He kissed my neck. "It hurts very much."

"You deserve it," I murmured back.

"I deserve it." He repeated, raising his head slightly to meet my gaze.

I reached up, resting my hand on his cheek. His stubble felt rough under my fingertips, a contrast to the softness in his eyes. "You do..."

His fingers gently massaged my hips under the water, pulling me closer. "You... are so beautiful."

"And you are so drunk."

He grinned lazily. "You're the best wife in the world."

"Say that back to me when you're sober."

"I'm sober."

"Yeah, right."

"I love you."

I smiled faintly. "I love you too, Tristan."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't," I pledged.

His arms tightened around me, and I felt the shift in his body, the way he craved to pull me closer, to close whatever space existed between us. "You promise?"

"I'll never leave you, Tristan," I promised. "I love you."

"More than them?" he asked, his hands gliding lower, over my stomach, and a wave of something intense rolled through me. His touch suddenly felt more meaningful, more intense.

"Tristan..."

"Do you love me more than them?"

His question shattered something deep inside me, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. I couldn't possibly choose. It was unimaginable.

He groaned at my silence, his head falling back on my shoulder. "They'll take you away from me."

"Tristan—"

"I'll never see you again. Only them. I'll be alone again. I don't want to share you. I don't... I don't want them to steal you away from me."

The pain in his words was so raw, so unexpected, it felt like a knife through my gut. I cradled his head against my chest, holding him as close as I could. "You'll never be alone, Tristan," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I have enough love for all of you. You'll never be alone, I promise."

But he kept shaking his head, his grip on me tightening. "You're lying. You're lying to me. I'll be alone again and she'll come for me." His body trembled, burning hot as memories of his mother clawed their way to the surface. "What if... What if she comes for them too?"

My heart broke, splintering in a thousand different directions. "Tristan," I called softly, trying to pull him out of the dark place he was spiraling into. "Look at me. Please, look at me."

He didn't. His fingers dug into my sides, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "What if she—what is—"

"Tristan." I cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. They were bloodshot and filled with a dread that went far beyond the physical. He was still drunk, but this wasn't just the alcohol. This was Tristan, my Tristan, the man I knew better than anyone. I brushed his hair back, my thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. "Your mother can't hurt them, okay? She can't hurt you anymore either. You're safe. We're all safe."

He stared at me, searching my eyes frantically, and I saw the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he so often tried to hide. He let out a shaky breath, and then, collapsed against my chest again.

I rested my head against his, running my hand up and down his muscled back. "You're mine, Tristan. No one else's."

He held me close again, repeating my words softly. "I am yours... no one else's."

A tear slipped down my cheeks but I smiled despite it. "Come on, let's get you out of the tub,"

When he nodded, I stood, taking his hand to help him up out of the tub. His balance wavered, and I tightened my grip on his arm, guiding him carefully out of the bathroom.

We reached the bedroom, and Tristan sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. I moved around the room, grabbing one of his favorite shirts, something comfortable to make him feel a little more himself. As I approached him with the shirt, standing between his legs to pull it over his head, his hands came up quickly, gripping my waist. Before I could react, he pulled me close again, burying his face between my breasts.

"Tristan," I chid, trying to sound firm, but the feel of his arms around me, the heat of his breath against my skin, made my resolve falter.

He looked up at me, his eyes glistening and filled with longing. I wanted to pull away, to remind him that this wasn't the right moment, that he needed rest, but I couldn't find the words. He leaned in and took my lips, and I allowed him. I allowed him to kiss me and touch me, and kiss me even deeper because I missed this.

Because, as much as I tried to convince myself it was merely hormones, that my body was betraying me with this insatiable craving, I knew the truth ran deeper. Despite everything, I missed him, I missed my husband, the Tristan I hadn't seen in so long, the one who wasn't distant, who wasn't closed off. And I needed him, needed this connection, this fire, even if it was twisted, even if he wouldn't remember half of it by morning.

His hands tightened around my waist, pulling me down onto the bed, and suddenly he was above me, his weight pressing into me in a way that sent my heart racing. I could feel the tension in him, the way he moved, how he kissed me like he needed this more than anything.

His lips traveled down my neck as he fitted himself against me and pushed inside. I moaned, aching into him. His thrusts were slow and deep, the weight of it causing the bed to creak beneath us. Neither of us spoke—there was no need to. Words couldn't touch the depth of what was happening.

I locked my legs around his hips, arms around his neck. It wasn't rushed or frantic, it was quiet, intense, as though we were both trying to hold onto something slipping through our fingers. My release hit in that moment, shattering through me like a wave crashing against the shore.

His release came soon after and he collapsed on top of me, his full weight pressing down, but I didn't mind. It was familiar—his warmth, the heaviness of his body against mine. We lay there in silence, the room thick with the lingering heat of what we'd just shared, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside the window.

I stared up at the ceiling, my mind spinning. I didn't know how to feel—relieved? Confused? Guilty? I couldn't untangle the mess of emotions inside me. Part of me wanted to cry, and part of me wanted to pretend that everything would be okay, that this meant we were okay. But deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple.

Tristan shifted slightly above me, bringing me back to the moment. His face, still buried in the crook of my neck, moved lower and I felt something wet against my skin.

At first, I thought it was just his sweat, but then, I heard it—a soft, broken sound.

My heart clenched.

He was crying. Not loud, not uncontrollable—but the quiet, heartbreaking kind of crying that sneaks up on you, the kind that breaks you from the inside out.

"Tristan..."

He didn't respond, didn't lift his head. He just stayed there, his body trembling.

My chest tightened, and before I knew it, I could feel my own tears welling up. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close as his tears soaked into my skin. There were no words that could make this better, no promises that could heal the pain we were both carrying. So I just held him tighter, crying silently.

In that moment, it felt like we were two broken pieces trying to hold each other together, trying to find solace in the silence, in the dark, in the only way we knew how.