It was close to midnight when the craving hit.

Not a vague “I’m hungry.” Not something you could ignore. It was specific — painfully specific. You needed those ingredients. You had been thinking about that exact meal all evening, and it wouldn’t leave your mind.

Simon was out.

He’d said he’d only be gone for a few hours.

When he answered your call, the noise behind him told you everything. Laughter. Music. Slurred voices. He sounded irritated before you even finished asking.

“You’re kidding me,” he muttered.

“I just need a quick ride. Fifteen minutes. Please.”

A long exhale. Then, “Fine. I’m coming.”

You should’ve said no when you saw him.

He pulled up too fast. The stop was sharp. The engine idled unevenly. When he stepped out, you smelled it immediately — alcohol, heavy and unmistakable.

Your stomach dropped.

“Simon… have you been drinking?”

His jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

He opened the passenger door impatiently. “Get in.”

You hesitated, one hand instinctively resting over your belly. The late-night street suddenly felt too quiet. Too exposed. Against your better judgment, you got in.

The tension was immediate.

He drove faster than he needed to. One hand loose on the wheel. The other tapping the steering column. His reactions were slower than usual. A little delayed. It scared you more than the speed.

“You’re drunk,” you said quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You should’ve told me to drive myself.”

That hit him wrong.

His head snapped toward you briefly. “So drive yourself next time.”

“That’s not the point!” Your voice cracked, fear creeping in. “What if we get stopped? What if something happens? I’m pregnant, Simon!”

The word hung there.

Pregnant.

Instead of grounding him, it seemed to irritate him further.

“I know you’re pregnant,” he shot back. “You remind me every five minutes.”

The traffic light turned red. He braked harder than necessary. The car jolted.

Your heart was racing now.

“You’re being reckless.”

“And you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m scared!”

The word scared did something. It poked at his pride. At the part of him that hated feeling accused. Hated feeling out of control.

“Oh, I’m the villain now?” he scoffed.

“You’re drunk and driving me around like this! What do you expect me to feel?”

Cars idled around you. The red light stretched too long. The argument was no longer controlled. It was sharp. Heated. Both of you talking over each other.

Then he snapped.

“Get out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Get out of the car.”

“Simon, don’t be stupid.”

“I said get out!”

The light was still red. You were in the middle lane. Cars behind you. Cars beside you.

“I’m not getting out in traffic!” you shot back, disbelief mixing with fear. “Have you lost your mind?”

And in that moment — drunk, humiliated, angry — he wasn’t thinking clearly.

He leaned across the console, shoved the door open from his side. The cold night air rushed in. Before you could react, his hand was on you — not striking, not punching — but forceful.

Too forceful.

He pushed.

It happened fast. Your body stumbled against the doorframe, your balance gone. You hit the pavement hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

The world went silent for half a second.

Then horns.

Someone shouted.

The light turned green.