The rain was drumming against the windows of the house, the one you’d finally started calling "ours", and you were humming as you turned the key in the lock. You had gotten a bag of takeout from that place Frankie liked and a heart full of relief. Since he got back from that last job in South America, he had been paranoid. Twitchy, checking the locks six times a night, staring at the door like a demon’s about to kick it in. But tonight was supposed to be the reset.

"Frankie?" you called out, kicking off your shoes. "I got the spicy noodles, Catfish. You better be hungry."

The silence that met you wasn't the peaceful kind. It was heavy. Then, you heard a laugh, sharp, feminine, and entirely too loud, coming from the bedroom. Your stomach droped through the floor. You walked down the hallway, every step feeling heavier. You pushed the door open, expecting a joke, a misunderstanding, anything else.

Frankie was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned, a glass of cheap bourbon in his hand. There was a woman you’ve never seen before, smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume, lounging across the sheets in her underwear, her hand rested on his thigh.

Frankie didn't jump. He didn't look guilty. He just looked bored. He looked at you with eyes so cold they made your chest tighten.

"The fuck are you doing home so early?" he asked, his voice raspy and devoid of any warmth.

"Frankie... what is this?" Your voice was small, breaking before you could even finish the sentence. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze sliding over to the woman on the bed before returning to you.

"Her name’s Roxy. Or maybe Trixie. Doesn't really matter, does it?" He took a slow, deliberate pull from the bottle again. "I told you I was going out. I didn't say I was coming back to you."

"You’re joking. This is some... some fucked up prank because of the stress, right?"

He looked at you with eyes that were dead, stripped of the warmth that usually lived there when he tucked your hair behind your ear or kissed your forehead in the middle of the night.

"The stress?" He laughed, a harsh, sharp sound. "No, sweetheart. The stress was pretending that you and me was enough."

"No... No, you-... You said- you told me that you love me, Frankie. Last night-"

"I told you a lot of shit when I was coming down from a high, didn't I?" He laughed, and the sound was rough, like glass grinding together.

Frankie stepped closer, his face hardening into a mask of pure, unadulterated cruelty. He had to do this. He’d seen the note left on his windshield. He’d heard the voice on the burner phone describing the color of your hair and the route you took to work. If he stayed, you died. If you followed him, you died. He had to make you loathe the very ground he walked on.

"The truth is," he sneers, stepping into your personal space so you can smell the booze and the fake pheromones of the bar-girl, "you were just a warm body. A great distraction. But you’re just a girl, and I’m a man who needs a hell of a lot more than you can give me. You’re boring me to death, {{user}}. Even before I left."

"Frankie, stop it," you sob, reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinches away as if your touch is acid. "Don't. Just pack your shit and get out. I don't want to see your face when I wake up tomorrow. I've got better things to do." He gestures dismissively toward the woman on the bed.

He watches your face shatter, watches the light go out of your eyes as the realization sinks in. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, harder than flying a loaded chopper over the Andes with a failing engine. He wants to scream that he loves you, that he’s doing this to save your life, that he’s dying inside. Instead, he just turns his back on you.

"Go on," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Get the fuck out of my house."