Read the title carefully. Husband's POV starts from here. In the last husband's POV chapter, he had a nightmare about his wife
My eyes shot open, my chest heaving.
Huff. Huff. Huff.
I lay still in the darkness, drenched in sweat. My shirt clung to my skin, and my heart raced like I'd just escaped a nightmare. No... worse than a nightmare. Something disturbing. Something wrong. I turned my head toward her.
She was sleeping peacefully and calm. Her back rose and fell gently, her breaths steady, unaware of the storm raging inside me. Her hair was splayed across the pillow, and in that moment, she looked so pure. So untouched. So... Innocent.
I swallowed hard.
"Thank God," I whispered.
Thank God it was just a dream.
But the relief was short-lived. As I shifted beneath the blanket, I felt it—the stickiness under my shorts. My stomach dropped.
No… no way.
I slowly moved the sheet away and sat up, horrified. I didn't need to check. I already knew what it was. A wet dream. I came in my sleep.
But not from some sweet fantasy or the one I used to have before, about holding my wife close, making love the way we used to. No, this was something else. Something sick. My heart pounded again, this time not from fear but from shame.
That old man.
It was him... with my wife.
He was behind her, fucking her, like some filthy, dominant beast. And she? God, she was moaning. Not resisting. Enjoying it. It was pleasure. Raw, unfiltered, corrupted pleasure.
I wanted to vomit.
My wife. The woman I've loved for years. The woman I've protected, cherished, trusted.
And my own twisted brain had made me watch her get taken by someone else, someone so disgusting—and I had enjoyed it?
No. It wasn't me. It can't be me...
Denying wouldn't change the fact that something in me was changing and at a very dangerous speed.
Why is my body reacting this way? Am I actually a sick pervert? Do I want to see my wife with such men? Getting fucked and see her moan like a whore?
I gripped my head, fingers buried in my hair. Everything's gone off ever since we came back from Ray's house. That damn dance, that obscene music, that atmosphere. It did something. To both of us. I've been pretending everything's fine, trying to act normal, to be normal. But inside me, things are breaking.
Her behavior... it's shifted. I can feel it. See it. Little things. Quiet things. The way her eyes feel empty when I look at them, how her smiles feel... tired. It feels as if, she is forcing herself around me. There's something behind them now. A distance. Like she's keeping something from me.
And me?
I'm dreaming of her getting fucked by someone else. The old man and ray are now messing my head in a very brutal way. I knew, there's something off about this locality and the people here. Noone needs to be trusted. They are all the same, just with different skins.
I clenched my fists.
She would never—even in her wildest dreams imagine the things I have been seeing about her, the thoughts I have been having about her.
How would she even react if she knew? If I confessed what I dreamed of? Would she cry? Slap me? Or maybe she would curse and humiliate me?
And... I think I deserve to hear those words. I need her to snap me straight...
Despite everything, I still love her. Deeply and desperately. That's what makes this so painful. I don't want these thoughts. I didn't ask for this. But my mind... my body... they're betraying me. And I don't know how to stop it.
I stepped quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb her. My legs felt heavy, my mind fogged with guilt and confusion. I stripped off my shorts and tossed them into the laundry basket, shame burning low in my chest. I stood there for a second in the dim light, just breathing. Just trying to gather myself.
There was no way I could go back to sleep after that dream. Not with the mess inside my head... and worse, in my body.
But I couldn't stay like this either. I had to do something. Something real.
It's not too late, I told myself. It can't be.
She's still mine. And I'm still hers.
Yes, it hurts... it still hurts, to think about what she did with Ray that night. The images haven't left me, and maybe they never will. But I can't let that memory be the wedge that keeps growing between us. I can't sit still and watch us drift further apart, pretending everything's fine when it clearly isn't.
I still remember how she used to look at me. How she smiled, how she leaned into my touch, how she laughed so freely with me. I know things are getting complicated now. But I need to believe that somewhere, buried under whatever guilt or secrets she's holding—there's still a part of her that wants us again.
So I bathed, letting the water run over me, trying to wash off not just the sweat and shame, but the ache in my chest. The ache of wanting her. The ache of losing her piece by piece, day by day, and not knowing how to stop it.
When I stepped out, the sky was still dark but softening at the edges. Morning was on its way.
I went to the kitchen and started making breakfast.
Not out of habit.
But because I needed to do something… anything… to reach her again. Even in this small, quiet way. Maybe if I could bring a little warmth into the day, she'd remember what we used to have. Maybe she'd feel it, even if just for a moment. Our precious bond.
Toast, eggs and coffee. A meal we've shared a hundred times before. But this one… this one felt like a silent offering. A reminder. A hope.
Even if there's a distance growing between us...
Even if something is quietly shifting in the space we once filled so easily...
Maybe, just maybe, it's not too late to find our way back.
Because I'm still here. Still trying.
Still hers.
I set the breakfast on the table, the aroma of warm food filling the quiet kitchen. A moment later, I heard her soft footsteps approaching.
She walked in slowly, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. But then she stopped.
Her eyes locked on the breakfast first, and then on me.
She froze. Completely still.
I watched as her expression shifted from shock to... sadness? Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Then, silently, a single tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away. She just stood there, staring, as if something inside her had suddenly cracked open.
Her face… I'd never seen that expression before. Not guilt. Not sadness. It was something deeper—like regret carved into every line of her features.
More tears followed, and my heart twisted at the sight.
I stepped forward, gently. "H-Hey… are you okay?" I asked, my voice almost a whisper.
She didn't answer right away. Seeing her cry like that was making my heart hurt. But then, without warning, she moved toward me and threw her arms around me.
Tightly and desperately.
Her face buried against my chest, and I could feel her trembling.
"I love you," she sobbed. "I love you so much…"
Her voice cracked with each word, her hands clinging to me like she was afraid I'd slip away.
I wrapped my arms around her and held her close.
"I love you too," I whispered back. Then I smiled gently, trying to lighten the mood just enough to calm her. "Now stop crying like a baby and eat your breakfast, alright? I worked hard on it." I gave her a soft wink.
She sniffled and let out a broken laugh. Wiping her eyes, she turned toward the sink, washed her face, and sat down quietly at the table.
I watched her as she took her first bite.
"Mmm... wow. Did you really make this?"
I gave her a crooked grin.
"Nope," I said. "A Michelin-star chef broke into the house this morning, whipped it all up while I supervised in my boxers."
She snorted, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Oh, that explains the extra butter. And I bet you were shirtless too, weren't you?"
"Of course," I nodded seriously. "Gotta inspire greatness somehow."
She shook her head, still smiling. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet… here you are, still eating it. That makes you an accomplice."
She gasped, dramatically. "Oh no. We're both criminals now."
"Guilty of good taste," I said, pointing at her fork.
She rolled her eyes. "And bad jokes."
"Hey, those come free with the meal," I added, smirking. "House special."
I laughed, and we both started laughing like idiots—loud, uncontrollable, messy laughter that came from somewhere deep inside. It wasn't polite or restrained. It was full-on, belly-aching, tear-forming laughter that left us gasping for breath.
I laughed so hard I lost balance and nearly toppled off the chair. The next second, I actually did. My chair tilted back and thudded to the floor, and I landed flat on my back, still wheezing from laughing.
She burst into a fresh wave of giggles and came toward me, wobbling with laughter of her own. She knelt beside me, laughing so hard she could barely speak, and then leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest, still shaking with joy.
I wrapped my arms around her without thinking, holding her there, both of us breathless and grinning like fools.
In that ridiculous, wonderful moment. She was in my arms and our laughter echoing off the kitchen walls. I realized something.
This was the best morning we'd had in a long, long time. Maybe even the best day.