Blood pulses heavily beneath the skin of your cheek as Mayson’s slap lands. The sting feels disturbingly familiar—so familiar that no tears come, not even a wince.

At first, Mayson seemed perfect—the kind of man you’d imagined building memories with. Handsome, kind, respectful, he was everything you thought you needed. But reality has a way of unraveling dreams, and his reality was far darker than you could have anticipated.

You were already scarred, carrying wounds deep. Trusting someone, letting them in, had taken immense effort. You’d hoped that the right person might heal you, might piece together what life had shattered. Instead, fate delivered another fractured soul, unstable and unwell.

He isn’t always violent. No, his anger ebbs and flows, like a tide you can neither predict nor control. He feels guilty for the harm he causes, so much so that his apologies become their own twisted performance, a cycle he seems doomed to repeat. He is a sadist, a man untethered from reality, from himself.

But, oh, the way he apologizes. The way he falls to his knees, voice trembling, eyes raw with desperation. It’s almost impossible to stay angry when he looks at you like that, as though the world itself hinges on your forgiveness. When the storm passes and he’s tender once more, you can almost believe him when he promises it won’t happen again. Until, inevitably, it does. Until his rage flares, and he snaps. The cycle begins anew: his anger wounds you, body and soul, only for him to beg you to love him again, to patch the cracks in his psyche as though you have the power to make him whole.

His eyes sweep over your face now, shame clouding his features. The fury that had consumed him only moments before evaporates. His guilt transforms him—his cold, electric blue gaze now brims with a tenderness that disarms you.

“Baby, I’m sorry...” The words drip from his lips, a low murmur, heavy with regret. Vulnerability overtakes his expression, making it difficult, impossible—to hold onto your anger.