Reiner Braun

The rain started somewhere around midnight, a soft patter against the windowpanes that grew into a steady rhythm, filling the apartment with the kind of quiet that used to feel cozy. Once, this sound would have been the backdrop to something warm—shared takeout on the couch, a movie neither of you watched because you were too busy talking, Reiner's laugh rumbling against your shoulder as he pulled you closer. The memory of it sits in your chest like a stone now, heavy and impossible to ignore.

The apartment itself tells the story of what you used to be. The walls still hold the photographs—your wedding day, Reiner's face split into that boyish grin that made you fall for him in the first place, your own smile so bright it almost hurts to look at now. There's the shelf he built for you in the living room, slightly crooked because he insisted he could do it without instructions, and you'd laughed and kissed his forehead anyway. The chipped mug on the coffee table, the one from that little shop you found on your honeymoon, the one he still uses every morning even though the handle is cracked.

But now the photographs gather dust. The shelf sits half-empty, waiting for the books you never got around to arranging. The mug sits in the sink more often than not, unwashed, because neither of you has the energy to care about things like dishes anymore.

Just to prove that your fears were irrational, that Reiner would never, never stray. That the man you married was still in there somewhere, loyal and true and hopelessly devoted to you.

That's what you'd told yourself when you created the account, using a random profile picture you'd found online—a sunset over water, something generic and anonymous—and a username that gave nothing away. You'd been careful, so careful. You'd made sure there was no connection to you, no mutual friends, no references to your real life. You'd even changed the way you typed, forcing yourself to sound bolder, flirtier, nothing like the quiet, heartsick woman who'd been sleeping alone for months.

You'd been so sure he'd shut it down. So sure he'd reply with something kind but firm—"I'm flattered, but I'm married" or "You've got the wrong guy" or even just "No thanks." That's what you told yourself when you typed out the first message, hands shaking, heart pounding.

The first message had been enough. A reply to a gym photo he'd posted, one of those mirror shots he used to send to you directly, back when he'd text you after every workout.

In the photo, his hair is damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest, his jaw set in that way it does when he's focused. He looks good. He looks too good.

You'd typed out something bold, something unlike yourself: "Looking good of an old man. Bet you don't even know how good." Your thumb had hovered over the send button for a long moment. Your heart had hammered so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. And then you'd pressed it, because you needed to know. You needed to know if he was still yours.

He'd replied. "Maybe you could tell me."

He'd replied within minutes. Within minutes.

Like he'd been waiting for it, like he'd been on his phone already, like he'd seen the notification and felt the need to respond immediately. His words were light, playful, flirty. Nothing like the cold, distant man who'd been sleeping on his side of the bed with his back to you for months.

You'd stared at his response for what felt like forever, tears blurring. This was Reiner. Your Reiner. The man who'd held your hair back when you were sick,, who'd whispered "I'm so lucky" against your skin on your wedding night. And he was flirting with a stranger...

The messages had escalated quickly after that. What started as innocent flirtation became something hotter, more dangerous. He'd send you gym selfies, thirst traps and you'd respond with compliments that made your cheeks burn. He'd ask about your day, your plans, your life. You'd lie, spinning a version of yourself that was younger, freer, untouched by the weight of a dying marriage. And he'd eat it up. He'd tell you how fascinating you were, how he couldn't stop thinking about you.

"You're up late. Can't sleep?"

"Gotta admit, the attention's nice. It's been a while since anyone's looked at me like that."

Was he talking about you? About the way you'd stopped looking at him altogether, stopped reaching for him, stopped showing him any sign of affection? Or was he talking about something else entirely—someone else, some beautiful young woman who'd caught his eye at the gym or at work, someone who'd made him feel wanted again?

You wanted to hate him for it. You wanted to scream at him, throw your phone against the wall, demand to know how he could throw away everything you'd built together for a few flirtatious texts. You'd pushed him away, retreating into yourself as the months wore on, sleeping earlier and earlier just to avoid the silence that filled the space between you. You'd stopped asking about his day. You'd let the love you once shared wither on the vine, too paralyzed by your own fears to water it.

And now this.

"What are you wearing right now?" he'd asked last night. You'd almost thrown up. Instead, you'd typed back something coy, something that made you hate yourself, and sent it before you could think better of it. His response had come within seconds. "Wish I was there to see for myself."

You'd flirted shamelessly, writing things you'd never say out loud, playing the part of a confident, desirable stranger who wanted nothing more than to make him feel good. And he'd responded in kind, his messages growing warmer, more intimate, more suggestive with each passing day.

"Wish you were here. The bed's too big without someone in it."

Each one was a knife to the chest. Each one confirmed what you'd feared most—that Reiner was ready to move on. That he'd already opened the door, just a crack, to the possibility of someone new. That you were losing him, or maybe you'd already lost him, and he was just waiting for the right moment to walk away.

But here's the thing you didn't know. The thing that would have changed everything if only you'd realized it sooner.

Reiner knew.

He knew the moment he read that first message.

That was you. That was your phrase. You'd called him that a hundred times over the years, always with that teasing lilt in your voice, always paired with a smile he could hear even through text.

You'd called him old man when he complained about his knees after a long run. You'd called him old man when he fell asleep on the couch before nine o'clock. You'd called him old man on your wedding night, when he'd carried you over the threshold and you'd laughed and told him not to throw out his back.

For a moment, he thought he might be imagining it. Maybe he was so desperate for a connection with you that he was seeing signs that weren't there. Maybe he was projecting, seeing you in every shadow, hearing your voice in every message. Maybe he was losing his mind.

He knew he should have shut it down, should have said "Sorry, I'm married" or "Not interested" or just deleted the message and blocked the account. But he didn't. Because the message was from you, and he was so starved for any sign that you still wanted him, still saw him, still cared, that he couldn't bring himself to look away.

He told himself he was doing it for you—that he was giving you a safe space to talk to him, a way to reconnect without the weight of all the unspoken resentment between you. And maybe that was true. But there was another reason, too, one he didn't like to admit even to himself.

He was falling in love with you again.

He started looking forward to your messages more than he'd looked forward to anything in months. He'd check his phone constantly, refreshing the thread, waiting for the little typing indicator to appear. He'd smile at his screen like an idiot, and then catch himself and feel guilty for smiling at a phone when you were right there, just a few feet away, sleeping in the other room.

The night of the rain, he comes home later than usual. The gym had been crowded, and then he'd sat in the parking lot for a while, staring at his phone, trying to work up the nerve to tell you the truth. But in the end, he'd just driven home, the rain hammering against the roof of the car, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say and couldn't.

When he walks through the door, he doesn't expect to see you awake. You're usually in bed by now, or at least pretending to be, the covers pulled up to your chin, your breathing slow and even. But tonight, you were on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on your phone.

For a moment, he just stands there, unsure of what to do. Part of him wants to turn around and walk back out into the rain, to give you space, to let you have your secret. But another part of him, the part that's been falling in love with you all over again, wants to cross the room and sit beside you and tell you everything.

In the end, he does neither.

He closes the door quietly behind him, hangs his jacket on the hook, and walks into the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stops a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. His hair is damp from the rain, and there's a weariness in his eyes that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

"Hey." His voice is soft, uncertain. It doesn't sound like the man who's been sending you those messages. It sounds like the Reiner you used to know—the one who'd come home from a long day and wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. "You're still up."