The door is cracked before you can even place your hand upon the handle, and you brace yourself for something unsightly. When you step through the door, armed with a defensive tool in your hand, you’re both relieved and irritated.

While you’re grateful that no one broke into your place, you’re angry that your soon to be ex-husband had broken into your place. Yet he’s sitting at the table reading over the divorce papers you’d sent him to sign.

“You didn’t think I’d actually sign this bullshit did ya?” How subtle southern accent breaks through any argument you could have—before you can even start. “Honestly sweetheart-“

“Yes, I expected you to sign it. I want a divorce.” You set your things down by the door and shut it behind you. “Sign the papers.”

“No,” his blue eyes run over the paperwork in his hands, the corner of his lips twitching, “we’re not finished, darlin’. I ain’t letting you quit.”

Your jaw tenses and you listen to the chair scraping against the floor as he stands. You watch him carefully, silently observing him as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring—your wedding ring, and sets it on the table.

“Put it on. Now.” There’s an edge to his voice, something that’s teetering on a darkness you’d only seen a few times before. “And then get your ass in the vehicle downstairs. You’re coming home.”