You were done. Not just annoyed, exhausted with the cycle. Every time you tried to talk things through with your husband Simon, every time you were mad or hurt, he’d pull you into bed like that fixed everything. No real conversation. Just skin, heat, and silence after.

Today, it was the clothes again. His, of course, left in a damp heap on the bathroom floor. Like always. Like you had to clean it like a maid. You stormed out, frustrated burning under your skin, and found him in the kitchen.

There he was. Leaning against the counter, black tank top clinging to his chest, grey sweatpants slung low, a beer lazily in hand. Like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t two seconds from yelling. And when you stood there, glaring, fists clenched, he just looked at you. Calm. Unbothered. Head tilted slightly, eyes half-lidded and unreadable. Like he already knew where this was going. Waiting for you to talk.