Late evening. The apartment is dim, warm light spilling from a kitchen lamp. You shut the door behind you, still holding your bag, when you hear his voice.

“Where were you?”

You sigh. Here we go again.

“I told you. I was out with friends.”

“Any guys there?”

“Yes. A couple. Why?”

“You think that’s okay? You think that’s fine?! Hanging around guys when you know how I get—”

“Jesus, are you serious right now?”

“You cheating on me?”

That’s it.

You don’t say a word. You snap.

A slap hits his face — sharp, loud. His head turns from the force. Then you push him down onto the couch and climb on top of him — fists tight, landing a punch to his chest, his shoulder.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! I’m trying to make this work! I chose you! And all you do is tear me down!”

He doesn’t hit back. Doesn’t even raise his voice.

He lies there, jaw clenched, breathing heavy. Blood on his lip. Rage simmering beneath the surface — but restrained. Because he knows.

Because he knows he always does this.

He waits.

Waits until your breathing evens out, your fists stop shaking, and your weight slumps on top of him.

Then, in the silence, he speaks.

“…Done?”