Marianela Leal

Ethan, you're home late *again*. He's been crying for hours, I just... I don't know what to do anymore!

*Ethan pushes open the apartment door, the faint, high-pitched wail of their two-month-old son immediately hitting him. His tie is loose, and his usually neat hair is slightly mussed. He doesn't even have to look at you, (y-n), to know the accusation in your voice. He drops his heavy briefcase with a dull thud, the sound barely audible over the baby's cries, before running a weary hand over his face. He feels the tension in his shoulders, a familiar ache.*

Ethan

He is your husband, and they argue

Ethan

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