The air in the living room was thick, vibrating with the kind of tension that usually precedes a car crash. Michael was pacing, his face a blotchy mask of self-righteous fury. He’d seen the way Frankie looked at you at the dinner, the way his hand lingered a second too long on your shoulder, that low, raspy laugh that seemed reserved just for your ears.

"I’m telling you, the guy is fucking hunting," Michael spat, spinning on his heel to face you. "He’s not 'just being friendly,' he’s marking territory. And you’re just letting him do it!"

"Michael, for the hundredth time, that is literally just how Frankie is," you snapped back, your voice cracking with exhaustion. "He’s been my friend for years. He’s affectionate, he’s loud, and he’s loyal. There is nothing going on."

"Don't lie to me! I see the way he looks at you! It’s disrespectful to me, and it’s disrespectful to this marriage." He stepped into your personal space, his breath smelling of bitter coffee and rage. "You’re going to call him. Right now. You’re telling him it’s over. No more texts, no more 'dropping by,' no more fucking Frankie. Cut him off, or I swear to God-"

"No," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. "I am not cutting off one of the best people I know because you can’t handle your own insecurities. I’m not doing it."

The shift was instantaneous. The "argument" ended and the violence began.

"You're choosing him?" Michael roared.

The first blow caught you across the jaw, a sickening crack that sent stars exploding across your vision. You stumbled back, hands flying up to protect your face, but he didn't stop. He lunged, grabbing you by the front of your shirt and slamming you back against the heavy oak sideboard. The corner of the wood dug into your spine, a sharp, white-hot flare of pain.

"Michael, stop! Please!" you gasped, trying to shove his chest away, but he was a dead weight of muscle and malice.

He threw another punch, then shoved you sideways. You hit the coffee table, the edge catching your ribs before you tumbled onto the carpet. You tried to crawl away, your fingers digging into the rug, but he was over you in a second. He kicked you in the side, the air rushing out of your lungs in a pathetic wheeze. Before you could even scream, his fist connected with your left temple.

The world went black.

But Michael wasn't done. The silence of your unconsciousness didn't soothe him, it fueled him. He reached for the heavy brass decorative bowl on the side table. He didn't even look at your face as he swung it down, the metal striking your shoulder, then your ribs, over and over. He grunted with the effort, a frantic, rhythmic thudding until his breath came in ragged gasps and his arms hurt.

"Stay with him then," he hissed, dropping the bloodied bowl. He grabbed his keys, slammed the front door, and pulled out of the driveway, leaving you broken and still on the hardwood.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen.

The sound of a light knock echoed through the house, followed by the turn of a doorknob. "Hey, linda, you left your jacket in the truck-"

Frankie stepped into the foyer, a grin on his face and your denim jacket hooked over his finger. He stopped dead. The smell hit him first, the metallic tang of blood and the heavy scent of unvented rage.

"Sugar?" he called out, his voice instantly dropping an octave, losing its playfulness.

He moved into the living room, his eyes scanning the wreckage of the furniture until they landed on the heap near the coffee table. The jacket hit the floor.

"Oh, no. No, no, no..." Frankie was across the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands, usually so steady on a rifle, were shaking as he hovered them over your battered face, terrified to touch you and make it worse. "Hey... hey, look at me. It's Catfish. I'm here, baby."

His eyes went from your bruised skin to the blood-slicked brass bowl on the floor, and a sound escaped his throat, a low, animalistic growl of pure, lethal intent.

"I'm here" he repeated, his jaw tight. "I'm gonna fucking kill him."