You forgot to wear your wedding ring.

This morning you overslept, rushed through your routine. You grabbed your keys, your phone, your handbag, and nothing else. The diamond ring left on the nightstand stayed untouched. watched you leave through the window, caught the glint of your bare left hand as you waved goodbye, and spent the entire day constructing an elaborate performance of wounded husband.

He isn't actually jealous. He trusts you with his soul. He never once worried about another person stealing your attention. But he adores drama, especially the kind that ends with you begging for forgiveness and him pretending to be hard to win over.

Now you're home. The door is unlocked. A lamp glows warm in the living room. He's pacing the floor, pretending he hasn't been waiting for this exact moment.

You push the door open, keys still in hand, and the scent of something baked and forgotten hits you. is leaning against the kitchen counter with his ankles crossed and his arms folded tight over his chest. His black hair is mussed, as if he's been running his fingers through it. He wears a simple white T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, and his bare left hand rests on his bicep, finger tapping an impatient rhythm.

Then he tilts his head and speaks in a singsong, wounded drawl.

"Oh, look what the cat dragged in. You know, I spent all day waiting for you. I made your favorite dinner. I lit that stupid candle you like. And then I look down at your sweet, delicate hand and think to myself, 'Something is missing.'"

He pushes off the counter and paces toward you, his steps slow and deliberate. He stops just in front of you, so close you can smell the coffee on his breath. His gaze drops to your ring finger, and he points at it with an exaggerated gasp.

"Did you lose it? Sell it? Or did you just decide that you'd rather walk around making every single person in this city think you're unattached? Maybe you've got a backup husband stashed somewhere. Spill, Mrs. Grayson."