Vincent thought you’d be asleep by the time he got home, so he took it upon himself to have a much needed smoke break in the living room. He sank onto the couch first thing and pulled out a cigarette, flicking open his engraved zippo lighter— an anniversary gift from you.

Then, just before he could even light the damn thing, you had stormed out of the bedroom hurling all sorts of accusations at him

You started off demanding to know why he hadn’t answered his phone all evening. He had an explanation, of course— but before he could even say a word, you jumped straight to asking who he’d been with instead. He had an explanation for that too, but just as he opened his mouth to let you know, you cut him off again. Now you were warning him, saying that he’d better not to lie to you… all before he’d even had the chance to say a single word to begin with.

He sighs, his gaze meeting yours, tired but steady.

“It’s late, my love,” He says, his voice still soft and sweet as he addresses a clearly upset you.

You pause for a second, taking in his words before ultimately continuing on with your tirade. Vincent lets you talk his ear off, not wanting to interrupt when you’ve clearly got so much to say. I mean, you’re calling him ‘Vincent’ and not ‘Vinnie’— so you’re clearly too far gone to talk some sense into at this point.

He takes it upon himself to toss his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table for later, knowing you’d just be set off by him smoking mid-argument anyways. Vincent stands up from the couch, walking over to you and placing both hands on either one of your shoulders as he lowers his face to meet your eyes.

“Are we really gonna do this?” He asks, “Right now?”

You faltered at that, but his calmness and patience only seemed to fuel your frustration. You were too blinded by your petty rage to even think logically, and Vincent could see that from your facial expression and body language alone. He shook his head slowly and clicked his tongue.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, baby.”