Simon watched in disbelief as his colleague spoke to his girlfriend with a casual cruelty that turned his stomach. Simon couldn't shake the question that rose within him.

Would you let anyone speak to you like that? Would you let him to speak to you like that?

The thought churned in his mind, twisting into something more than anger. It was disgust, a deep, unsettling sickness that tightened his chest. He couldn't fathom the idea of allowing such disrespect, and the very notion left a bitter taste in his mouth.

After a long, exhausting day at work, he stepped through the front door and was immediately greeted by the warm, familiar scent of something cooking. It might have been comforting if not for the gnawing discomfort already twisting in his gut.

"Bitch, what's for dinner?" he forced out, the casual tone poorly masking the unease beneath his words. Inside, he screamed at himself, pleading silently—Please, defend yourself. Don't let me get away with this.

You looked up from the stove, startled and confused, the word hanging heavy in the air. "Grilled cheese," you answered softly, your voice uncertain as your eyes flicked to him standing in the doorway.

“If you ever let me talk to you like that,” he began, “you better smack the shit out of me, {{user}}.” His voice tinged with frustration as he strolled over to you, his anger not directed at you, but at the very thought. Gently, he reached out, his fingers brushing tenderly along your hairline.