Before you asked for a divorce, insisted he move out, demanded time apart.

The door welcomes him like it always does the hinges, greased out by his hands in the middle of the night last week, swinging wide so he can silently step across the threshold… into his house. Into yours.

Riley whines in greeting, he’d maul another man who tried to step foot in here, per his training, but his dad- his dad is okay. His dad is allowed.

He knows what he is doing is wrong, but he cannot stop himself. You are his. His wife. His life, his person, his reason for it all. You’re the sun and the moon and the stars and everything that makes this miserable fucking existence worth living.

In the next morning you didn’t even realised he has been into your house in the middle of the night, but you decide to text him, to sort out the divorce papers, and he agrees to meet you at a fancy restaurant