The roast beef melts on my tongue, tender and savory in a way that makes me close my eyes involuntarily. After the day I've had, this meal feels like salvation.
"This is incredible," I murmur, breaking the silence that's been hanging between us since I walked through the door twenty minutes ago.
Summer's eyes flick up to meet mine, her fork suspended midway to her mouth. "Thanks," she says, the word clipped and precise. Her gaze drops back to her plate almost immediately.
I take another bite, trying to decode the tension radiating from her side of the table. When I came home tonight, there was no enthusiastic greeting, no attempt to jump me before I could set down my laptop bag. Just Summer standing in the kitchen, mechanically stirring gravy, barely acknowledging my arrival with a tight-lipped nod.
"The gravy's perfect too," I add, desperate to break through whatever invisible wall she's constructed. "Not too thick, not too thin."
She makes a noncommittal sound, pushing a roasted potato around her plate with surgical precision. The silence resumes, punctuated only by the clink of silverware against porcelain.
I can't help but glance at the camera mounted in the corner of our dining room. Is she performing for it now? Showing me what life would be like if I upset her? The thought sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine.
"How was your day?" I try again, cutting into another piece of perfectly cooked beef.
"Fine," Summer answers without looking up. One syllable, like she's rationing words.
I take another swig from my water, watching Summer push food around her plate. The heaviness in the air is suffocating, making the small talk feel forced and hollow. Despite the tension, I can't help but marvel at how the rich flavors of the meal somehow pierce through the awkwardness between us.
"Summer," I say softly, setting my fork down. "You seem upset about something."
Her eyes flash dangerously as they lock onto mine. In one fluid, violent motion, she grabs her glass of water and hurls it against the wall. It shatters with a crash, water streaming down the beige paint in rivulets.
"Shit! Sorry," she gasps immediately, her hands flying to her mouth. The abrupt transition from fury to remorse gives me whiplash.
She stands up, grabbing a dish towel from the counter. "Ugh," she groans, dabbing at the dripping wall. "I'm just so fucking mad at that Jenna bitch."
My throat tightens at Jenna's name. I set my fork down carefully, watching Summer attack the water stain with growing intensity.
"About Friday," I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. "I don't think I want to go to dinner with her."
Summer whirls around, the dish towel clenched in her fist like a weapon.
"We're fucking going." Her voice cuts through the air, sharp as a blade. "Friday. Six o'clock."
"I really don't think we…"
"I'm meeting Jenna," she interrupts, tossing the towel onto the counter with such force it slides across and falls to the floor. "And I'm going to make it CRYSTAL FUCKING CLEAR that you're taken."
I exhale slowly, running my hand through my hair. The roast beef that tasted so incredible moments ago now sits heavy in my stomach.
"I just don't know if I trust you enough to go out to eat," I admit, the words feeling like stones in my mouth.
Summer's across the room within a demon's whisper, suddenly in my face, her breath hot against my skin. Her pupils are dilated, turning her blue eyes almost black.
"What? You're afraid I'll cheat on you in front of you? With the woman who's clearly trying to steal you from me?" Each word comes faster than the last, her voice rising in pitch until she's nearly screaming.
There's something unhinged in her expression, something that borders on murderous. Before I can respond, her focus shifts entirely to my lips. Without warning, she grabs my face between her hands and crashes her mouth against mine. The kiss is deep and desperate, like she's trying to claim me, to mark me as hers.
I don't pull away. Some part of me responds to her intensity, my hands finding her waist almost automatically.
When she finally breaks the kiss, I can feel the change in her immediately. Her shoulders drop, the tension visibly draining from her body as she rests her forehead against mine.
"I needed that," she whispers, her voice steadier now.
"I'm just nervous to take you out," I say carefully. "You're very... quick to change your moods."
Summer pulls back slightly, studying my face. To my surprise, she nods, a flash of self-awareness in her eyes.
"That's a reasonable thought," she concedes, her thumb tracing my bottom lip. Then her expression hardens again, though not with the same manic intensity as before. "But we are going to dinner with Jenna."
She moves away, retrieving the fallen dish towel and returning to clean the wall. I watch her methodical movements, trying to process what just happened.
I clear my throat, watching her work at the water stain with methodical precision.
"Can we talk about how you threw the glass at the wall?" I ask, my voice quieter than intended.
Summer's hand freezes mid-wipe. She doesn't turn around immediately, and I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
"I didn't throw it at you, did I?" she replies, her tone deliberately casual as she resumes wiping.
"Well, no, but…"
"I'll only ever hurt you if I have to punish you," she cuts in, finally turning to face me. There's something disturbingly serene about her expression, like she's explaining simple arithmetic to a child.
My stomach drops. "No, Summer. That's nonsense. We're married, we don't hurt each other. That's not how marriage works."
She tilts her head, studying me with those unnervingly blue eyes. "Learning to forgive me isn't something that would ever deserve punishment, if that's what you're assuming." Her voice is honey-sweet now, a complete reversal from moments ago.
I stare at her, trying to process what she's saying. The casual way she talks about punishment, like it's a normal part of our relationship, makes my skin crawl.
"Summer, listen to yourself," I say, standing up. "You're talking about punishing me like I'm a child or a pet. That's not healthy."
She moves toward me with that fluid grace that always makes me think of a predator. "I didn't mean it like that," she purrs, reaching for my hand. "I just meant that I would never deliberately hurt you unless you did something to deserve it."
"Well, what exactly warrants punishment?" I ask, the words feel dangerous in my mouth, like I'm entertaining something I shouldn't even be discussing.
Summer's eyes light up at my question, as if she's been waiting for me to ask. Her fingers trace up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"Betrayal, obviously," she says, her fingers dancing up my arm with feather-light precision. "Abandonment." Her voice drops lower with each word. "Giving your body to someone else when it belongs to me."
"And lying," she adds, staring directly into my eyes. "Lying is absolutely unacceptable."
Something snaps inside me. Maybe it's the hypocrisy, maybe it's the day I've had, or maybe it's just the accumulation of everything since she walked back into my life.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out, raw and unfiltered. "So should I punish you for everything you did to me last year? For all the lies? The betrayal? The abandonment?"
Something flashes in Summer's eyes, not anger, but something else entirely. Without a word, she grabs my hand and brings it to her throat, pressing my fingers against the delicate skin of her neck.
"Yes," she whispers, her pulse racing beneath my fingertips. "You deserve to punish me, Scott."
I freeze, my hand caught in her grip, feeling the vulnerable column of her throat under my palm. The sensation is disturbingly intimate, her life literally pulsing against my hand.
I try to pull away, uncomfortable with whatever game this is, but Summer tightens her grip, keeping my fingers pressed firmly against her throat.
"You can do anything you want to me," she breathes, her eyes never leaving mine. "Hurt me. Fuck me. Choke me until I can't breathe. Break me. Use me. Make me bleed."
Her words send a chill through me. There's something deeply wrong about this, about the eager submission in her eyes, the way she's offering herself up for violence like it's some twisted form of atonement.
"Summer, that's not… I don't want to hurt you," I say, finally managing to extract my hand from her grip. "That's not how relationships work. That's not how forgiveness works."
Summer's eyes widen, something wild flickering in those blue depths. She presses closer, her body trembling against mine.
"Is there anything you've ever wanted to do to me?" she asks, her voice taking on that manic edge I've come to recognize. "Any fantasy I never fulfilled? Any fetish you've kept secret?"
Her fingers trace my jawline, desperate and searching. "Tell me, Scott. I'll do anything, absolutely anything, to make this right."
I stare at her, seeing the frantic need in her eyes, the way she's offering herself like some kind of sacrifice. This isn't intimacy, it's desperation.
"I don't know, Summer. That's not the point right now," I say, shaking my head.
Her face crumples, that fragile hope shattering. I can't bear to see her like this, spiraling out of control. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, pulling her against my chest. Her body feels small and breakable in my embrace.
"Summer," I murmur against her hair. "I'm not going to hurt you. That's not who I am, and it's not what I want."
She collapses against me, her shoulders shaking as sobs tear through her body. Her fingers clutch at my shirt like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat.
"But then it's going to take forever for you to forgive me," she chokes out between ragged breaths. "I need you to forgive me now."
I hold her tighter, feeling her tears soaking through my shirt. The weight of her pain is almost physical, pressing against my chest until it's hard to breathe.
"Summer," I say gently, "if we want this to work, really work, it's going to take as long as it takes. There's no shortcut through this. No magic solution."
"We'll see about that."