Then I wrenched it open and dragged him out onto the steps like garbage that had overstayed its welcome.
He staggered, half-bent, coughing through the hit I’d given him earlier, one hand clutching his ribs like he could hold the air inside him a little longer.
I leaned in, slow and smiling, letting my words curl like smoke between us.
“If you come here again…” I said, voice low, almost gentle. “If you even look at her again—” I stepped closer, so close I saw the flicker of fear behind his rage. “I’ll kill you.”
No bluff. No hesitation.
Just the truth, spoken like a promise carved into stone.
Then I slammed the door in his face.
Let the sound echo like a gavel.
And for a moment, I just stood there—hand on the handle, breathing slow, steady, satisfied.
Let him sit with it.
Let her hear it.
Let the whole goddamn house remember who it belonged to.
His footsteps faded down the path like a retreat.
Coward.
The house exhaled, all at once, and I let the silence settle.
Thick. Dense. Final.
I walked into the kitchen, each step measured—controlled—not because I felt calm, but because rage like mine demands ritual. Precision. A performance before the fire.
Coffee cups.
Whimsical little things. Mismatched. Painted with flowers and stupid quotes.
Hers.
I touched each one carefully, setting them in place, the porcelain clinking soft against the hush like bones in a shrine. An illusion of peace.
But inside?
Inside I burned.
She stood by the door still. Frozen. That dress hugging her like it had been sewn onto her skin.
God.
She didn’t even realize what she looked like—dark silk molded to every curve, legs bare, collarbone exposed like an offering she never meant to give.
She let him see her like this?
She let him touch her?
You let him look at you like you were his to protect.
The thought carved itself across the inside of my skull.
