I wake before the sun.
It’s not unusual—I’ve been wired this way for years—but this time, it isn’t the day pulling me up. It’s the weight beside me. The warmth of Sabrina curled into my side, her hair across my chest, her breathing slow and steady like she trusts the world not to take anything from her while she sleeps.
That thought sits heavy.
I slide out of bed quietly, tug on gym shorts and a T-shirt, and head downstairs. The house is still, the kind of quiet that usually settles me. I start the coffee first—muscle memory—and watch it drip into the pot, already knowing how she takes it because I pay attention. Too much attention.
That’s the problem.
I don’t like not knowing.
I don’t like the unanswered space around why she ran. What happened betweenhappyandgone. I don’t like that another man touched her life deeply enough to leave marks I can’t see.
And I really don’t like how much it matters.
This marriage was supposed to be simple. Strategic. A means to an end.
Make my family happy.
Strengthen the business.
Do my duty and move on.
Instead, I’m standing in my kitchen at dawn making coffee for my wife and thinking about whether she’ll smile when she smells it.
I head to the basement gym before the thoughts spiral any further.
The lights snap on. Cold concrete. Steel. Control.
I crank the music until it fills the space—Green Day first, loud and sharp, the kind of sound that takes me straight back to being younger and angrier and certain that discipline could fix everything.
I hit the treadmill hard.
My legs pump faster than necessary. Breath comes heavy. The beat shifts—All American Rejects, Good Charlotte, all the 90s punk-pop classics that burn through my chest and shake loose the things I don’t want to feel.
I run harder.
Because I hate that I want to know what makes Sabrina happy more than I want to protect the plan.
I hate that I’m losing control over my own damn emotions.
I hate that when I picture the future, it isn’t contracts and expansion—it’s her laughing in my kitchen, her notes spread across my desk, her voice in my house like it’s always belonged there.
The pace climbs.
My lungs burn. Sweat drips down my spine. My heart slams against my ribs until it feels like it might break through.
Then—A sound. Soft. Out of place. I glance up.
Sabrina stands in the doorway.
She’s wearing a dark blue pajama set—soft cotton clinging to curves I shouldn’t be staring at right now. The color makes her skin look impossibly pale, her red hair piled messily on top of her head like she didn’t bother taming it before coming down here.
Her arms are crossed. Her brow is furrowed. She’s staring at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.
I slow the treadmill, breath still ragged, chest heaving. “Morning,” I manage.
She tilts her head. “Do you always try to run yourself to death before breakfast?”
