He could swear the kitchen got smaller whenever the two of you were in it together. It wasn’t the room shrinking — it was the air thickening. Heavy, electric, waiting to explode. Like both of you carried matches and gasoline. He’d stopped noticing when the yelling began; it was just part of what you were now. A routine. A language only you and he spoke.

The glass hit the wall right next to his head and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces that rained down onto the counter. He didn’t flinch. Not once. Just clenched his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache. He still had the sandwich in his hand, half-eaten, like the chaos behind him wasn’t already burning.

“Say that again,” you hissed through gritted teeth. Your voice cracked at the edges — anger and something else. Something softer buried beneath, the thing that kept him tethered here, no matter how much it hurt.

He turned just slightly, enough to catch the reflection of your glare in the kitchen window. It almost made him smile, how beautiful you looked even when you were this furious. Especially when you were this furious. “What?” His voice came out calm. Careless. Cruel. “That you’re an unbelievable, toxic little annoying whore?” He lifted the sandwich back to his mouth, like this was nothing. Like you were nothing.

Your laugh wasn’t really a laugh — too sharp, too bitter. “You’re immature. You’re the whore here. You flirted with her, not me.”

He scoffed, a short breath of air through his nose. “Oh, wow. Just ’cause I said her bracelet was pretty—”

“Since when do you need to compliment other girls?” you snapped, taking a step closer. The sound of your heels echoed through the kitchen, and he hated it. He loved it. He wanted to smash them again, just like before.

“Since I got a girlfriend who loves jewelry,” he shot back, his voice low and sharp, “Ever think maybe I wanted to buy the same for you?” He swallowed the last bit of his sandwich like it didn’t taste like ash.

Your arms crossed over your chest, a wall he could never climb but always tried to. “Oh, spare me that excuse. You just wanted to flirt with her.”

He almost laughed then. Not because it was funny — nothing about this was. But because the way you said it, the way your lip trembled even when you tried to stand taller, made something in him twist. Made him want to ruin everything and fix it at the same time.

You didn’t see it — how he was unraveling inside, thread by thread. How every fight dug its claws in deeper. He wasn’t any better than you. Hell, he was worse. He’d broken things that didn’t belong to him. Hidden your keys. Trapped you. Hurt you in ways he wouldn’t admit even to himself.

And yet, when the shouting quieted, when your voice cracked, when you looked at him like you still loved him despite everything… there was always that flicker. That stupid, stubborn spark that refused to die.

He stared at you now, chest rising and falling too fast, heartbeat pounding too hard. And somewhere behind all the anger, he wanted to reach out and touch your cheek. He wanted to pull you close and destroy you and save you at the same time.

Because that’s what loving you felt like. A slow, beautiful kind of self-destruction.