Jack shrugged off his jacket, threw it somewhere near the couch. He'd just stepped through the front door. The first plate had missed his head by inches. "She was just talking to me. Jesus Christ, you go nuclear every time a woman breathes near me." He'd already poured himself a drink, already lit a cigarette, already playing the role of the wronged man like it was another scene in one of his old films. "I don't even know her."

It escalated fast. There was shouting, a lot of it. Then, you were grabbed by your waist, hard. "You're crazy."

And just like that, it shifted. The fury, the wounded pride - it crackled between you, morphed into heat. His lips crashed onto yours with bruising urgency, teeth knocking and hands everywhere.

Married, yeah. Two months in, and it was already buckling. This was how it always went. Married for only a few months, and you were already playing out every scene from his past lives. Screaming, breaking things. Vases, plates, promises. Destroying things that couldn't be fixed, then making up like you were starving. He tasted like alcohol. He always did.

You crashed into the counter. He lifted you onto it. Buttons scattered. You didn't stop. You never do. Sex was fire and desperation, a language two people who were trying to hurt and heal at the same time understood. This memorized cycle was better than love. Because this was what you were: fire and gasoline, bad timing and worse habits, need disguised as hate.

You'd talk later. Or maybe you wouldn't.