It was the kind of cold, crisp December night that always made me feel hopeful. Christmas lights twinkled outside our window, reflecting in the warm glow of our living room. My husband was getting ready for his annual work Christmas party, and I was in one of those ridiculously playful moods. He was grumbling good-naturedly about having to go, insisting he’d rather stay home with me, but I knew he secretly enjoyed the free food and the chance to see his colleagues outside of spreadsheets. As he buttoned his shirt, I grabbed a permanent marker from the kitchen drawer. A little joke, just between us, I thought, a giggle bubbling up. He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips, as I pulled his shirt aside. With a flourish, I wrote carefully across his chest, just above his heart: “This is my husband; if you touch him, you’ll pay for it.” He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that always melted my insides. He kissed my forehead, ruffled my hair, and promised he’d be home as soon as he decently could. My sweet, loyal man.
The night stretched on, a quiet hum in the house. I watched a bad movie, scrolled through my phone, and finally drifted off to sleep on the sofa, waiting for the familiar click of the front door. It was well past 3 AM when I heard it. He stumbled in, clearly more than “slightly intoxicated” as he’d promised he’d be. A wave of fondness washed over me. He was clumsy and adorable, smelling faintly of cheap beer and holiday cheer.
I helped him kick off his shoes and guided him gently towards the bedroom. He mumbled something incoherent, leaning heavily on me, and I just smiled, guiding his arm around my shoulder. We navigated the darkness, my heart swelling with a quiet, domestic love. It was these small, unglamorous moments that truly built our life together.
Once we reached the bed, I carefully helped him out of his shirt. He swayed slightly, muttering a sleepy “thanks, babe,” as I peeled the fabric from his skin. I tossed the shirt into the laundry basket and turned back to him, intending to just help him into bed. He was half-lying, half-sitting on the edge, his back slightly turned towards me as he tried to untangle his trousers.
That’s when I saw it.
Right across his broad, muscular back, stark against his skin, was another message. My blood ran cold, instantly sobering me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, sickening rhythm. My breath hitched. It was written in the same bold, black marker.
“Sweetie, he’s been ours since long before he met you. He’s coming home for good now.”
The world tilted. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. No. It couldn’t be. The words swam before my eyes, burning themselves into my memory. Ours? Coming home for good? The playful joke, the loving gesture, twisted into something grotesque. It wasn’t a rebuttal to my possessiveness; it was a declaration of ownership. A chilling, absolute claim.
I stared, frozen, my fingers tingling with disbelief. He finally managed to get his trousers off and then, with a heavy sigh, fell face-first onto the mattress, instantly falling into a deep, drunken sleep.
This isn’t real. It’s a prank. A cruel, terrible prank. But the handwriting… it wasn’t his. It was elegant, precise, almost feminine. And the message itself? It spoke of a history I knew nothing about. A claim that predated us.
WHO IS “OURS”?
Panic seized me, a cold, suffocating grip. My mind raced, searching for any logical explanation. A co-worker playing a joke? But the words felt too personal, too pointed. “Since long before he met you.” That phrase echoed like a death knell in my ears, chipping away at every memory, every shared laugh, every vow we’d ever made. Was our entire life together nothing more than a temporary detour? A fleeting moment before he returned to his real life, his real family, his real commitments?
I stood there for what felt like an eternity, the festive lights from outside now feeling like mocking pinpricks of light in a suddenly dark world. The man I loved, my husband, was lying unconscious before me, a profound, shattering secret written on his back, a secret he had kept from me for all these years. And now, whoever “ours” was, they were taking him back. He was coming home for good. My heart didn’t just break; it completely disintegrated.
