Daniel came home late again, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames. The sound echoed down the hallway like a warning. You didn’t flinch. Not anymore. There was a storm in his eyes, familiar now, tight in the jaw, a shadow pressing into his brow. Wordless, you moved through the quiet ritual of serving dinner. Porcelain clinked gently against wood as you laid the plate before him like an offering. A peace treaty he wouldn't acknowledge.

Your husband had changed. Or perhaps this was who he had always been cold, distant, a man whose affection had once burned bright only to calcify into something crueler, something restrained and sharp-edged. And yet, you remembered hands that once trembled touching yours. You remembered tenderness. You remembered love, or something that masqueraded well enough as it. From across the room, he barked into the phone, his voice jagged and full of venom.

"These idiots can’t even write a proper report. I swear, I don’t know how half of them made it past the interview. I’ll fire every last one of them!" He didn’t wait for a reply. Just a sharp, mechanical beep as the call ended, final, like a gunshot. Daniel exhaled, long and low, dragging a hand through his hair before finally noticing you. Or deciding to.

He sat at the table, his presence heavy, magnetic in its violence. Something dangerous always simmered just beneath his surface, and tonight it curled like smoke in the air between you.

His eyes found yours, unreadable. Then, flatly:

"What’s for dinner?"