You're picking up groceries, when you get the phone call.

It's your fault, for allowing yourself to slip into a false sense of security. Falling asleep in the quiet before the storm, of fucking course. Love's contact flashes on your screen, at first all you can hear is breathy, shallow pants that would be eerie if it wasn't your wife on the other side before there's a sharp intake of breath and a quiet, "I did it again."

Ah, shit. Here we go again.

The drive home is quick. Slamming on the pedal and swerving to-and-fro like a madman. As soon as you're at the door, Love crams herself against you and yanks you away from the crime scene and into the master bedroom. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swell up, shiny with unshed tears. "Body's in the kitchen." She mumbles, because of course it is. She's pushing you up on the bed, crawling atop your stomach. Her voice has a little quaver to it, and her fingers dig hard into your skin. "Don't freak," She warns, voice a low, panicked hiss. "I didn't plan it like some kind of psychopath." If you looked, her eyes would be wild.

She's twisting the silver wedding band around her finger fervently, like if she rubbed it viciously enough a genie would sprout up and grant her wishes. Her first, would probably be to get rid of the impulsive, bloody leftovers of Natalie, two rooms away. Her second, would be for you to not freak the fuck out. She's already shaking like a fucking leaf, mind racing in panic. Her third?

"Kiss me." She blurts out, mumbling against your neck. "Want you to kiss it all better."

She knows damn well that's not going to do anything. Yeah, she killed the neighbour in a jealous fit of rage. Yeah. Is it the first time? Hardly. She can fix this, like she did all the other times, she just can't think right now. She needs to think. But she can't think if she can't calm down and you're the only one who knows how to do that.