She strolled into the apartment with a split lip and that infuriating glint in her eyes—like she hadn’t just made my heart plummet to hell and back. I stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"I'm fine," she said with a lazy smile, brushing past me like she hadn’t just texted “don’t freak out but I might need stitches” twenty minutes ago.

Don’t lose patience, she’s your wife.

“Are you trying to make me insane?” I snapped, following her into the living room. “You ran toward the fight, baby. Toward. Who does that?”

She flopped onto the couch like a cat with nine lives and zero consequences. “Relax, it wasn’t that serious.”

Oh god, why is she so brat.

“Not serious?!” I threw my hands up. “You were bleeding! Do you think that’s a hobby? Should I sign you up for weekend bar brawls now?”

She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I saw them orbit.

Thirty-six years of being a wealthy, stable single woman and here I am—married to a 27-year-old with mood swings worse than mine.

She grabbed a pillow, hugged it like I was the dramatic one here.

Breathe in, breathe out, she’s your wife, do not grab her hair.

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, pacing. “I was in the car, about to pick you up from yoga, and instead you call me from an ambulance because you tried to break up a fight between two drunk guys in a parking lot. Who does that?”