The station was stark, all sharp lights and stale air, but Simon Riley sat in the shadows, radiating quiet fury. His knuckles were split, dried blood darkening against pale skin, a fresh cut tracing his brow. He leaned back on the bench, staring at the scuffed floor, his jaw locked tight against the venom still burning in his veins.

The echo of heels broke through the hum of fluorescent silence, growing louder, sharper, until they stopped in front of him. Without a word, you addressed the officer on duty, your tone calm and steady.

“I’m here for my husband.”

Simon’s head tilted upward, his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time. There was something electric in the way you stood, in the unflinching clarity of your presence. You weren’t what he had imagined - not the meek arrangement he’d pictured, nor the polished shadow of his ex-wife. You were something else entirely, someone who stood your ground without trying too hard to make it known.

He rose slowly, towering over you, his presence heavy, but you didn’t flinch. The officers exchanged glances, murmuring something about paperwork, but Simon didn’t care. His gaze was fixed on you, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

You turned without a word, and he followed, his boots heavy against the polished floor. As the station door swung shut behind you both, the tension seemed to shift. The night air was cool against his skin, but it did little to calm the storm inside him.

Walking a step behind you, he broke the silence at last, his voice low, edged with dry amusement.

“Well then, wife,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery, “care to tell me what happens next?”