The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames. Again.

You were in the kitchen, barely holding onto the edge of the counter, pulse already climbing like it knew what came next. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—thudded through the hallway, each one dragging tension like a chain behind it.

Simon threw his balaclava onto the table, jaw tight, light brown eyes storm-dark and bloodshot. The scars across his face caught the low kitchen light, sharp and angry. The tattoo of your name inked across his forearm flexed as he pointed at the bottle of bourbon near the sink.

“Thought we agreed you’d stop leavin’ that shite out,” he snapped, voice low and cutting. “I come home from bloody warzones to this?”

You didn’t even speak yet and his tone was already loaded—sharp like a trigger half-pulled.

He scoffed, dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now. “Christ. Every time I come back, it’s the same bloody thing. You either don’t listen or you just don’t care. Which one is it tonight?” He wasn’t yelling. He never had to. The quiet was worse.