Your husband, Derek, was pacing back and forth across the living room like a caged animal, his dress shirt half untucked, tie hanging loose around his neck. You sat sunk into the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. His voice had that sharp, clipped edge that always came out when something at work went wrong.

“This is ridiculous!” he exploded, running a hand through his hair. “Is my security this bad? Who the hell lets some bee-keeper with a can of gasoline stroll into my building? A million-dollar facility—just gone!”

You took a slow drag from your cigarette, watching the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling before exhaling. “Sweetie,” you said, your tone calm, almost lazy in contrast to his fury. “I think you’re just overreacting and stre—”

He spun toward you, eyes flashing. “No! No, I am not overreacting!” he barked. “I’m overstressed! And—whatever! Just—go do something with your life other than bothering me! Please!”

You flinched slightly, the word “please” hitting harder than the rest. The silence that followed was thick—just the hum of the air conditioner and the faint crackle of your cigarette.