His glassed wife

The night swirls in shadows, under the soft awakening of the moon.

Autumn's cold wind knocks gently on the windows.

But the married couple pays no mind to the frost's whisper.

Inside the warmth of their room, beneath the comfort of tangled duvets, they lie close—together, yet not quite whole.

Ishmael wraps his arms around Neva, her body soft and moreish—he never feels like he's had enough of her.

He leans down, kissing her with a passion too deep to be named, devouring her mouth like a starving man.

His hands brace the bed on either side of her head, while her fingers cling to the collar of his black silk pajama shirt.

His lips capture hers, drawing her swollen bottom lip between his teeth, teasing and tasting until a breath escapes her against his mouth.

His palm cups her cheek, their tongues tangled in aching rhythm, each savoring the pleasure that momentarily masks the ache of something missing.

A low, animalistic groan escapes him—his body tense, aflame with the hunger to become one with her, as deeply and wholly as possible.

Neva's arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, losing herself in the kiss, in the feeling. The need for air forgotten. The desire unbearable.

Ishmael trails his hand down from her neck, grazing the hollow between her collarbones, then the rift in her bosom. She shivers beneath his touch, her breath catching.

But not just from desire, but something else, something unspoken coiling in her chest.

But as he lowers himself, his kisses trailing to her throat, her shoulders—fingers tugging at the thin straps of her red nightgown—Neva gasps, gently pushing him by the chest. Her breaths come hard and fast.

He doesn't stop, lips brushing her neck, lingering, marking, savoring.

The air turns thick and fevered, wet sounds of kisses mingling with rustling fabric as he slips the gown off her skin, aching to see all of her—to claim her wholly.

"Ish—Ishmael," she breathes.

He only hums against her skin, intoxicated, his mouth tracing over her shoulder, her collarbone, tasting the sweetness of her.

"Wait," Neva whispers, her voice barely audible, her chest heaving. "We should stop."

"I don't want to," he replies hoarsely, his voice deep with yearning.

"I—just want to ask you something," she murmurs, gripping his arms.

"Later," he mumbles, tongue gliding over her warm skin, lavishing her curves.

"Please," she pleads, barely holding back a moan, her fists clenching the sheets, her breath ragged.

He sighs, finally pulling back, though not without pressing one last kiss to her lips. In the dim golden lamplight, her flushed cheeks glow, her eyes glisten with something unshed. He stares at her—so breathtaking, so heartbreakingly silent.

Noticing her lack of response, he draws away and meets her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he frowns, concern finally piercing through his desire.

She turns her face slightly, pulling her thin nightgown straps back over her shoulders. When she doesn't answer, he strokes her face gently and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Is something wrong?" he repeats, his thumb brushing her cheek.

"It's just… something's been bothering me," Neva says softly, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt.

"I'm listening." He shifts beside her, lying on his side, his hand enclosing hers.

Neva swallows hard. She hesitates, then bites her lip—until he pulls her lip free with a gentle kiss.

She looks at him. "The twins are old enough now… Can I—can I attend college?"

His brows knit, the warmth in his gaze darkening with caution. Her eyes dim as her heart sinks.

"Why?" he rasps, his knuckles grazing her jaw.

"I just want to study," she replies quietly.

"I can arrange tutors for you here," he says, leaving kisses along her jaw and down her neck.

"You said it's safe now… even for the twins to start preschool."

"The world will never be safe enough," Ishmael says flatly. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to soften the blow.

"You're twisting your words," she says.

"Am I?" His eyes narrow. "You can study virtually. And I haven't yet decided if I want the children exposed to formal schooling."

Neva sighs and leans against him, resting her head on his chest. His arms immediately wrap around her.

"Sometimes… your protectiveness suffocates us," she says, barely above a whisper. "Even if the world is frightening, I want some part in it."

"You think I keep you locked away?" His tone chills. But the way his hand strokes her hair contradicts it.

"No. I didn't mean it like that."

She raises her head to look at him. "I don't remember much of the outside. I envy those who get to choose. I don't even know what I would choose. But I want the chance."

"You have everything you need here. There are people out there—sick–minded people. I can't let you be exposed to that," he replies, his voice firm.

People he cannot control. A world he cannot restrain.

Neva frowns, retreating into herself. Her spirit folds in.

"Forget it." She turns her back on him.

"How can I make it up to you?" he asks softly, tightening his arm around her.

He breathes in the floral scent of her shampoo.

"I don't even know myself, Ishmael," she whispers. "I don't know who I am… aside from being your wife and the twins' mother. I've forgotten everything else."

He remains silent.

She's never admitted these thoughts aloud before, not like this. But he's done everything for her.

To keep her safe. To protect her. And yet he's failed to protect the fire within her—the light he once fell in love with.

"I have dreams, Ishmael. Ambitions," she says, her voice a trembling thread of hope. "I want to find who I am. Can't you give me a chance?"

He turns her gently, his voice low, skeptical. "And what kind of ambitions?"

She meets his gaze. Her smile is small but earnest. "So many. I want to study nature. Literature. Psychology. Astronomy.

I want to visit mountains and oceans.

Eat in tiny bakeries. Read in quiet libraries. Walk through museums. Hear live music. Just… live. I want to be someone—beyond this house. Beyond even this marriage."

Ishmael says nothing. He only stares at her, unmoved. Bitterness stirs in him.

He cannot give her that kind of future. And he hates that she would even dream of a world that takes her further from him.

Neva's smile falters. Was it wrong to voice this aloud?

"You're right," Ishmael says suddenly. "Isaiah and Naya are old enough. It's time we try for another baby."

A sharp, aching hollowness blooms in her chest.

She blinks, disbelieving. He shunned her dreams like they never mattered.

Her eyes dim as he leans in to kiss her again, laying her gently on her back, his mouth moving down even as he unbuttons his shirt.

And as the emptiness in her grows, a quiet understanding breaks in:

He doesn't want to share her with the world.

He only wants to keep her—like a glass statue in a golden cage.

This house, once a place of comfort, begins to compel in faster—swallowing her whole.

Smothering her—and the dreams that gives her life.