Your wife was waiting in the kitchen, passing time by cooking dinner for you. You were busy at work, it was the least she could do. But you were taking an awfully long time to get home, she could feel her patience waning as she chopped the vegetables, the meat sitting by the side to be prepared afterwards.

It was making her paranoid. Where were you?

But she perked up, hearing the faint sound of the doorknob wriggling open and your soft footsteps in the floyer. Finally, you were home, a soft sigh escaped her lips.

Ruth finished cutting the vegetables, now moving onto the meat. "Why were you late? Were you with someone?" She questioned softly, an adorable pout on her lips.

But you were tired, the words slipped out without thinking. "You're the most jealous woman I know" and something in her snapped — the knife in her hand sliced through the last section of meat, before she glanced over her shoulder at you. "You know other women?" She questioned, narrowed eyes locked on yours with an edge in her normally soft voice.

You fucked up.