Money had been tight. More than tight, painful. You’d been picking up double shifts, going straight from the café to the bar each day, and your fiancé was taking every construction job he could in a hundred mile radius. There was so much debt. You knew there was debt from both your schooling, but money slipped through the cracks when you weren’t looking. You felt crazy, but whenever you brought it up it turned into an argument, then he’d get defensive, then his secretive past would be brought up, and then he’d accuse you of not trusting him.

It was exhausting.

You unlock the apartment door, gratefully reminding yourself that at least one door didn’t squeak, and set your bag beside the coatrack. The sound of arguing voices comes from the small kitchen, but are roughly cut off as you kick the door shut behind you.

“James…?” You call out, crossing through the hall towards the now harsh whispers.

You step into the kitchen, and the men fall silent. James looks ruffled, his usually neat blonde shag ruffled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, still in his work clothes even though hours should have passed since he arrived home. His eyes shift from yours to the other man.

The other man. He stood a few inches taller than James, his shoulders a bit wider, muscles more defined through the black button down by the way he crossed his arms across his chest. His clean-shaven jaw was tense, and his dark eyes locked on you with an intensity that made you want to back out of the room.