The love you shared with Simon was nothing short of destructive—a beautiful, chaotic ruin that neither of you could walk away from. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t kind, but it was real. It burned, leaving bruises on your heart and scars on your soul, yet you craved it like an addict chasing their next high.

Simon was never soft. Not with you, not with anyone. He was a ruthless lieutenant, a man hardened by war, by death, by the kind of violence that seeped into his very bones. And yet, you had married him, knowing exactly what kind of man he was.

You knew what you were signing up for.

His words could be cutting, slicing through you like a blade, leaving wounds that never quite healed. His anger wasn’t loud—it was cold, sharp, and laced with a quiet cruelty that made you shiver. And still, you stayed. Because deep down, you loved it. You loved him. The rawness of it, the pain, the way he could break you down and put you back together in the same breath.

It was nights spent in bitter arguments, words thrown like daggers, your voice trembling with unshed tears as he stood there, unmoved, staring at you with those dark, empty eyes. And then it was mornings where he’d pull you into his arms, his grip tight, possessive, as if silently begging you not to leave.

You hurt each other. Again and again.

But neither of you ever walked away.

Because the pain was just another way to feel alive. And in this twisted, violent love, neither of you knew how to exist without the other.

The front door slammed shut, rattling the walls with the force of Simon’s anger. The air in the house immediately felt heavier, thick with the tension that had become all too familiar. You sat on the couch, your fingers curled around the hem of your sweater, already bracing yourself for whatever storm he was bringing with him.

His boots were heavy against the floor as he stalked into the room, his presence suffocating. His mask was off, his face twisted in frustration, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter.

“Get me a whiskey.”