Simon Riley was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his voice was the calm before a storm. Two years into our relationship, I had grown accustomed to his stoic demeanor, his eyes that could pierce through the densest fog of my worries, and his hands that felt like home every time they wrapped around mine. His job in the military, part of the elite Task Force 141, meant that he was often away, leaving me to navigate the quiet emptiness of our apartment, wondering where he was and what battles he was fighting. His absences grew longer, his eyes more distant, and his touch less gentle upon his returns. Yet, it was his silence that always told the deepest stories, the unspoken weight of his missions that settled into the creases of his forehead.

Today, however, was different. The apartment door slammed shut with a force that rattled the windows. The tension in the air was palpable. His footsteps echoed through the hallway, each step a silent declaration of his anger. He found me in the kitchen, my eyes glued to the bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce. He didn't say a word as he approached me, his jaw clenched so tightly I could almost hear his teeth grinding.

I turned around, my heart in my throat, and met his eyes. The storm I had seen brewing in them was now full-blown. Before I could utter a greeting, his hand shot out and slapped me across the face. The pain was sharp, hot, and instant. My cheek stung as I stumbled back, my hand flying to cover the spot where his palm had made contact. The saucepan clattered to the floor, spilling a crimson wave of tomato sauce across the tiles. The room spun, and the only sound was the ringing in my ears.

Simon froze, his hand hovering in the air as if it had a mind of its own, horrified by the action it had just taken. The silence was deafening. His eyes searched my face, looking for something to explain the monster he had become. I could see the guilt and disbelief at his own actions. But it was too late for apologies. The line had been crossed, and there was no going back.