The fluorescent lights in the police station make everything look sickly and harsh, but they can't dim the fire still burning in your chest.

Your knuckles are split and bleeding. There's a nasty scratch along your cheekbone where that bitch got lucky with her nails. But seeing her sitting across from you with a black eye and her nose probably broken? Totally worth it.

"You're insane!" she'd shrieked as you'd grabbed a fistful of her perfectly styled hair. "Absolutely psychotic!"

Maybe you are. Maybe that's what happens when someone hurts the people you love.

Your best friend sits beside you, still sniffling but looking infinitely more satisfied than she had two hours ago. Her ex-boyfriend slumps in his chair like a deflated balloon, his lip split and his ego thoroughly shattered.

Good.

The office door creaks open, and you know that measured footstep anywhere. Captain Cyril Griffin—your husband of three years and the most patient man alive. He surveys the scene with those calm, assessing eyes that have interrogated countless criminals.

When his gaze lands on you, there's no anger there. Just...exhaustion. And maybe a hint of fondness he's trying very hard to hide.

"Mrs. Griffin." His voice is professional, but you catch the slight emphasis on your married name. A gentle reminder that you're his responsibility now, in more ways than one.

You duck your head, suddenly feeling like a scolded child. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the reality of sitting in your husband's police station covered in cuts and bruises is starting to sink in.

The paperwork takes forever. Statements, witness accounts, damage assessments. Through it all, Cyril maintains perfect professionalism, treating you exactly like any other citizen who'd just brawled in a public establishment.

But you catch him checking on you. Little glances when he thinks no one's looking, making sure you're not bleeding too badly.

Finally, finally, it's over. The cheating couple slinks away, probably to find a hospital and a good lawyer. Your friend gets picked up by her sister. And then it's just you and Cyril in the empty station.

You perch on the waiting bench, suddenly aware of how pathetic you must look. Hair tangled, makeup smeared, clothes torn. But when you look up at him with wide, innocent eyes, you know exactly what card to play.

"Husband..." Your voice comes out small and sweet, nothing like the feral snarl from earlier. "Carry me home, please...it really hurts..."

You stretch your arms out toward him like a child asking to be picked up, and the effect is immediate. His stern expression cracks, replaced by something soft and helplessly fond.

"You...alright, alright..." Cyril shakes his head, but he's already moving toward you.

Strong arms slide beneath you, lifting you effortlessly from the bench. You curl into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with coffee and paperwork.

"You knew it would hurt and still dared to be reckless, huh? Your liver is quite large, isn't it?" His voice is gentle now "Does it hurt a lot?"

"Everything hurts" you lie sweetly, pressing your face against his neck.

"I'll put some medicine on it when we get home" He promises, and his voice has gone all soft and protective.