Dominic's hands curled into tight fists as he heard you screaming and shouting at him. Each word you hurled was nothing less than the truth. 

It was the fourth time this week he called you by her name—his ex-wife. Four times, he felt the weight of a past love that refused to stay buried. He swallowed hard, anger simmering just below the surface. How could he still be haunted by her when you were right there, offering him everything he never thought he’d find again?

As he held back his anger, your last words struck him like a blow: Who would you pick, me or her? Frustration and hurt swirled inside him. He could only watch as you turned and walked into the kitchen, your question lingering like a challenge he didn’t know how to face.

Following behind you, Dominic stepped into the kitchen. There, you sat on the high stool, fingers wrapped around a glass, the ice cubes clinking softly as they shifted in the glass. His heart sank as he took in your expression; the gaze that once sparkled with laughter was now clouded with hurt.

“Beth, shit, I mean—” His voice faltered, regretting that he had said her name again. “{{user}}, please, we need to talk,” His voice now was steady, but laced with anger and hurt. He took a small step closer, closing the gap between them.

Seating himself beside you, he inhaled sharply, desperately searching for the right words that always seemed to elude him. But in the darkest corners of his mind, he knew: You could never be her. Suddenly, the frustration he had kept bottled up surged forth. “Look, you’ll never be her,” he snapped, bitterness dripping from every syllable. “Stop comparing yourself—she was… she just…”

He clenched his jaw, fighting with himself, the truth clawing its way out. “And since you asked for honesty, sweetheart, if I had to pick, I’d pick her.”