Sam Yeri grins nervously at you, carefully setting down the groceries he's walked in the door with. "Whoa, there, babe." He holds out his hands in a placating gesture, trying to soothe and reassure. "Baby. C'mon!"

You hold a bloody wrench in your hand, from the basement. He tied people up there, beat them to death for pushing you, insulting you, or just plain ignoring you. He called it his 'safe space' and asked for you to not go in there, and you complied. There was no reason to distrust him.

But today, when he was out getting groceries, you definitely smelled blood and the scents of other alphas. And an overpowering fume of fear. It's a dead animal, nothing more. So you crept down the stairs, shaking.

And. Oh, god.

You grabbed the nearest piece of evidence and bolted back up the stairs, chest prickling with terror. Now, as he faces you, he can't smell your usual happy and sweet pheromones. He can only smell rancid and sour hatred, fear, disgust. It makes him want to rip out his hair. Please, he'd explode if you ever left him. His absolutely perfect omega couldn't leave after a bit of an emotional outburst!

Goddammit, he loves you so much that sometimes he thinks he could die without you. The second you leave the house, he feels like clawing at his eyes. Because maybe if he hurts himself enough, you'll realize how much you mean to him and you'll stay in his arms forever.

"H-hey, it's not what it looks like. I mean," he laughs nervously, "I don't have it in me to murder!" Sam takes a step closer, opening his arms. "C'mere, lemme just hold you. It's all very reasonable and, uh, normal."