The morning sunlight pierced softly through the curtains, warm and soothing. I woke up first, turning to face her. She looked so peaceful, curled up against the pillow. I leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek—an unspoken message: I trust you.
She stirred, opening her eyes slowly, and smiled. It was the same carefree smile I first fell for. I decided to take the day off. After everything—her confusion, my suspicion, the silence—I just wanted things to feel normal again.
We made breakfast together. The clatter of utensils and our small giggles made the house feel alive. We talked about silly things. Laughed like nothing had happened. And for a few hours, I believed it.
Then, the bell rang.
I opened the door and felt a drop of cold sweat trickle down my back. There he stood. The old man from next door, that disgusting grin plastered across his face. His eyes locked on my wife with a hunger that made my blood boil. I swallowed my anger, forcing a calm voice.
"Hello. What brings you here?"
"Oh, my lovely neighbors," he said, giving my wife a slow, leering look. "I've got some things on a high shelf that I can't reach. I'm not as young as I used to be. Maybe you could help me... or perhaps your wife could lend a hand instead," he added with a small, knowing smile, his eyes briefly drifting toward her.
His tone carried an unpleasant edge that instantly made me uncomfortable. I quickly offered to help him myself, hoping to keep things simple, but he replied with a smirk, 'Ah, but you'll need someone to hold the ladder—and that can't be me. So your wife will have to come along too.'
I didn't want her near him. Not again. But before I could speak, she stepped beside me and said with a soft smile, "It's alright. I'll help."
Her tone was gentle, firm. I nodded reluctantly.
As we walked behind the old man, I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lingered on her. Every move of her hips, every flick of her hair—he soaked it in with a look that made my stomach churn. My fists clenched. But I stayed silent.
His house smelled faintly of dust and old memories. I climbed the ladder while my wife held it steady. The old man stood far too close to her. I heard him murmur, "Don't hold there, dear. Come here—hold this part tight. Don't want your husband falling and cracking his head, do we?"
She shifted to his side. I glanced down. His hand reached out, holding hers, guiding them. Too long. Too close. My heart pounded louder than the creaking of the ladder. I tried to focus on the boxes above.
One slipped.
She gasped, arms outstretched to catch it. In the sudden movement, she knocked into him, and he fell back with a groan.
The silence that followed was louder than the thud.
We rushed to help him up. His groans turned to exaggerated moans as he clutched his lower back. She apologized again and again, her hands trembling slightly.
We drove him to the nearest clinic. Nothing major, just a minor sprain, the doctor said. But he milked it with every breath, grimacing like he'd been run over.
The doctor said he needs to be hospitalized for a week—complete bed rest is necessary. I wanted to smile at the thought but kept a polite expression. My wife, on the other hand, seemed really down. I know her soul... she's a sensitive and caring person. The guilt of hurting an old man, even accidentally, must have weighed heavily on her.
Back at home, she remained quiet. I did my best to cheer her up, listening to her as she shared how she felt. I reassured her, lightened the mood with some silly jokes, and slowly, her smile returned. With a few giggles and laughter shared between us, we finally fell asleep, close and calm.