The rain hadn’t stopped in hours. It clung to the windows in long streaks, as if the sky was trying to peel the world apart. Inside the dim apartment, the only light came from the kitchen—harsh and flickering, like a bad memory. Ghost, your husband, stood by the counter, arms folded, his face unreadable beneath the balaclava. But the silence between you was loud. Throbbing.

You were curled on the couch like a cat that’d eaten something cruel. The wedding ring danced across your knuckles, rolling over bone and scar. You weren’t looking at him, not really. You never had to.

“I know what you did,” he said finally, his voice low. Not angry yet—just tired. “The intel’s gone. Deleted. You flushed it.”

You didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, you laughed—short, sharp, almost melodic. “You say that like it was some kind of tragedy,” you said, still toying with the ring. “It was garbage, Simon. A list of names. Coordinates. Cold. Lifeless. I did us both a favor.”

His jaw clenched. You could see it in the way his body went still. No movement, no shift of breath. He was trying not to react. That made it better.

“You could’ve died getting that,” he said. “I could’ve died. But that’s the part you like, isn’t it?”

You finally looked up. Your eyes were bright, alive with something volatile. “What I like is watching you care so much it kills you. What I like is knowing you’d kill for me, even if I ruined everything.”

He crossed the room in two strides. You didn’t flinch. Never did. His gloved hand slammed down beside your head on the couch, but it didn’t touch you. You just smiled up at him.

“You think this is love?” he growled.

You tilted your head. “No. I think it’s obsession. And I think you’re terrified that without me, you’d be nothing but a weapon collecting dust.”

He stared down at you, breath heavy, knuckles white. You felt the tension roll off him like thunderclouds—and it thrilled you.

Then, softer, quieter: “You married me, Simon. What did you think you were signing up for?”

Silence. A flicker of something like regret passed through his eyes—but only for a second. Then he kissed you. Violent. Desperate. Like a man trying to set himself on fire just to feel something.