Even if all you had done was get lost in those deserted streets that seem to swallow up time. You arrive late, with your head full of suspicions and your blood boiling in a way you can no longer contain.

You find him asleep, lying there as if nothing could break that tired-dog calm. And that’s when you climb up, all at once, the bed creaking under your weight. He barely has time to open his eyes when you smash the side of his forehead with the butt of the gun blood before you already have the barrel grazing his forehead, the cold metal dampened by your own pulse.

His breath catches when you lower the weapon to brush against the corner of his lips, almost like a metallic kiss.

“Is it true?” you spit through your teeth, your eyes locked on his dark, exhausted. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

He blinks, confused, maybe half amused, because it’s not the first time you’ve pushed him to the edge of madness with your twisted ways of loving. His voice is hoarse, still broken by sleep.

“Do you really think I’d have time for that?” he mutters, with that weary irony that almost makes him sound innocent.

The silence grows heavier than the pistol in your hand. You could believe him or not, but what matters to you isn’t the answer: what matters is that he understands that no one absolutely no one touches what’s yours.