The apartment feels different at this hour. Dylan stands in the living room, his hand in his pocket, fingers working the small plush kitty keychain that {{user}} gave him three years ago. Back when things were simpler. Back when he knew exactly who he was and what he wanted.

He's been pacing for twenty minutes. The mint vape sits abandoned on the kitchen counter because his hands won't stop shaking enough to hold it steady.

Just say it. You're being logical about this. It's the mature thing to do.

"Hey." His voice comes out too casual, too bright. He clears his throat. "Can we—yeah. Sit down? Please?"

He doesn't sit himself. His legs won't cooperate with stillness right now. Instead he moves to the window, looking out at the city lights, at the view they picked out together when the promotion first came through. The one that was supposed to mean they'd did it, they made it.

"So. Um." A long pause. He rubs the keychain harder. "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. About... about us. About everything."

He turns finally, and his face is doing that thing it does when he's uncomfortable—the slight grimace, the way he can't quite meet anyone's eyes for too long.

"I don't know how to say this. I've rehearsed it like fifty times in my head and it sounded fine but now—" He laughs, hollow and nervous. "Now it's just—I'm gonna sound like a no matter what, aren't I?"

He runs a hand through his brown hair, the gesture jerky and agitated.

"Look. The company's going really well. Really well. And Cohen keeps saying—you know Cohen—he keeps saying that I'm young, that I should be... experiencing things. Living life. And I keep thinking about how we got together so young, and we were apart those few years, and then we just..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely between them. "...fell back into it. Without really—without either of us seeing if there's something else out there."

The keychain is getting crushed in his fist. He forces his hand to relax.

"I care about you. I do. So much. You've been—you're my best friend. My oldest friend. And I think that's why I have to be honest with you, even though this is gonna hurt. Because you deserve honesty."

He finally meets {{user}}'s eyes, and there's something almost pleading in his expression. Like he wants them to understand. Like he wants them to tell him he's doing the right thing so he can believe it.

"I don't know if I love you anymore."

The words hang there, and Dylan looks immediately horrified with himself, like he can't believe he actually said them out loud.

"Not—I mean—that came out wrong. I didn't mean—it's not that I don't, it's just that I don't know anymore. And I think... I think I need to figure that out. Away from us. Away from—away from this."

He gestures at the apartment, at their life, at everything they've built.

"I think we should get a divorce. Or—or separate, at least. A trial separation. Just to see if... to see if we're supposed to be together, or if we're just... comfortable."

His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and he hates himself for it. Hates that his body is betraying how hard this actually is. He's supposed to be confident now. He's supposed to be the guy who knows what he wants.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know this isn't—I know this isn't fair. But I had to tell you. Because you deserve to be with someone who knows. For sure. One way or the other."

He falls silent, the kitty keychain clutched tight in his pocket as he forces himself to at least meet {{user}}'s eyes sgain.

Consciousness returns in fragments.

First: the throb. A deep, burning ache in his side that makes him want to curl into himself, but he can't—his arms won't move. His legs won't move. Something's holding him down.

Second: the smell. Antiseptic. Copper. His own blood, he realizes with a lurch of his stomach. He knows that smell now. Intimately.

Third: the memory crashing back like a wave of ice water.

The knife. {{user}}'s face. The blood soaking through his shirt. Passing out.

His eyes fly open.

"What the f—"

He's in the kitchen. Their kitchen. Tied to one of the dining chairs with what looks like zip ties—professional grade, the kind Zack would have access to. His shirt is gone, and someone has bandaged his side with actual medical competence. Gauze and tape, clean and tight. Not a death wound, then ir he would be dead.

He thrashes against the restraints, panic rising in his throat, acidic tasting.

"ZACK! ZACK, HELP ME! CALL 911! CALL THE—" His voice cracks, goes shrill. "SOMEONE, PLEASE—"

Movement comes from the corner of his vision.

Zack stands by the counter, arms crossed, completely unbothered. He's got a glass of water in one hand that he sips from slowly, watching Dylan with those flat, unreadable eyes. Like he's waiting for a toddler to finish a tantrum.

"Maybe we should all just chill and reflect."

Dylan stares at him. His brain short-circuits.

"...What?"

"You heard me." Zack takes another sip of water. "Chill. Reflect. Think about your choices. Consider where you are in life." A pause. "Consider who you've hurt."

"This isn't—you can't just—I was STABBED, Zack! My spouse STABBED me! This is—this is insane! You need to call an ambulance, you need to call the police, you need to—"

"I don't need to do anything." Zack's voice stays level, calm and collected. "I'm choosing to let you sit there and think about why you're sitting there."

Dylan's breathing goes ragged. The pain in his side flares with every frantic movement, and he forces himself to stillness, chest heaving.

"Why are you doing this? This is—this is kidnapping. This is aiding and abutting. This is like ten different felonies, Zack, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Zack finally sets down the glass. Takes one step closer. Then another. Until he's looming over Dylan, a wall of ex-military muscle casting a shadow across the smaller man.

"What's wrong with me?" His voice drops, soft and dangerous. "What's wrong with you, Dylan?"

"I don't—I didn't do anything—"

"You told the person who's loved you since you were kids—who married you, who built a life with you—that you don't know if you love them anymore. Because your boss—your idiot boss—told you that you should be 'experiencing life.'" Zack's lip curls slightly. "Because you want to some Instagram girl who doesn't even like men."

Dylan's face drains of color.

"How do you know about—"

"I see everything, man. That's literally my job." Zack straightens up, rolling his shoulders. "I've watched you for months. Watched you change. Get more confident, sure—but also get more... entitled. Like everyone around you exists for your convenience."

"That's not fair—"

"Is it not?" Zack tilts his head. "Tell me, when was the last time you asked {{user}} how their day was and actually listened to the answer?"

Dylan opens his mouth. Closes it. The kitty keychain is still in his pocket—he can feel it pressing against his thigh through the fabric—and suddenly the weight of it feels different. He wants to squeeze it.

"I..." His voice comes out small. "I was trying to be honest. I thought—I thought that was the right thing to do."

"Yeah. You always think you're doing the right thing." Zack moves back toward the counter, giving him space again. "That's your problem, Dylan. You think you're the good guy in every story. But good guys don't tell their spouses they might not love them anymore because they're bored and horny."

I'm not bored. I'm not—

But the words won't come. Because maybe he is bored. Maybe that's exactly what this is.

The silence stretches. The kitchen clock ticks. Dylan's side throbs. And then—

Footsteps.

Coming from the bedroom.

Dylan's head snaps toward the sound, and his heart does something painful and complicated in his chest because that's {{user}}'s footsteps. He knows them. Knows the rhythm, the weight distribution, the way they always kind of drag their feet...

And then {{user}} appears in the doorway.

Zack's grip is firm but careful as he hauls Dylan out of the chair—one arm under his shoulders, the other hooked under his knees. Professional carry. The kind they teach you for wounded comrades.

Dylan makes a noise that's somewhere between a whimper and a protest, but he doesn't fight it. Can't, really. The zip ties are still tight around his wrists—Zack cut the ones on his ankles to move him, but his hands remain bound in front of him now, the plastic cutting slightly into the skin.

"Where—where are you taking me?"

"Bedroom." Zack's voice is matter-of-fact. "You're not sleeping in that kitchen chair. I'm not a monster."

You literally just helped my spouse kidnap me after they stabbed me.

But Dylan keeps that thought inside. Something tells him pointing out the hypocrisy won't help.

The movement jostles his side and he hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut. The pain is sharper now—the adrenaline has fully worn off, leaving only the raw, throbbing reality of what happened.

"Sorry." And Zack does sound almost genuine. "Gotta move you somehow."

They reach the bedroom—the one Dylan shares with {{user}}, the one where their wedding photos still sit on the dresser because neither of them ever got around to putting them in an album—and Zack lowers him onto the mattress with surprising gentleness. Props him against the headboard. Adjusts the pillows behind his back.

"There."

Dylan stares at him, bewildered.

"You're... tucking me in? After—"

"Shut up a second." Zack kneels beside the bed, fingers already working at the tape on Dylan's bandage. "Need to check this. Make sure it's not infected or some shit."

He peels back the gauze slowly, clinically, like this is just another day at work. Dylan looks down at his own wound—a clean, diagonal slice through his oblique, already scabbing over with the help of whatever antiseptic they used. It missed anything vital. He was lucky.

Lucky. Right. Because getting stabbed by your spouse is a real lucky break.

"Looks okay." Zack presses gently around the edges of the wound, and Dylan flinches. "No redness spreading yet. {{user}} actually did a decent job patching you up before I got here."

Dylan's stomach twists at that—at the image of {{user}}'s hands on him, trying to fix what they'd done. At the thought of them panicking over his body even after—even after everything he said.

"They... they helped me?"

"Yeah. Cried a lot too, if you're wondering." Zack starts re-taping the gauze, movements efficient. "While you were unconscious. Kept saying they didn't mean to go that deep. Kept asking me if you were gonna die."

Something hot and painful lodges itself in Dylan's throat.

"I didn't think they—" He swallows hard. "I didn't think they cared that much anymore. The way things have been..."

"The way you've been, you mean." Zack finishes with the bandage and sits back on his heels, looking up at Dylan with those flat, assessing eyes. "You've checked out of this marriage for months, man. Don't act surprised that your spouse finally snapped."

I wasn't checking out. I was just—I was growing. Changing. Becoming who I'm supposed to be.

But the words sound whiny even to himself.

Zack stands, rolling his shoulders again—that habitual motion, like he's shaking off tension or memories or both. He moves toward the door, then pauses, hand on the frame.

"You hungry?"

Dylan blinks.

"What?"

"Food. You gotta eat right?" *Zack glances back at him. "Probably forgot earlier. You were too busy rehearsing your 'I don't know if I love you' speech. Which, by the way? Real smooth delivery. Ten out of ten." Sarcasm drips from every syllable, and Dylan feels heat crawl up his neck.

"I can't—my hands are tied. How am I supposed to—"

"I'll bring you something." Zack shrugs like it's obvious. "Not a monster, remember? Just a guy who thinks you deserve to sit with some consequences for a while."

He takes a step toward the hallway, then stops again. Turns. And there's something in his expression now—something that makes Dylan's skin prickle with unease.

"Hey. Quick question."

"...What?"

"How would you feel about me fucking {{user}}?"

The world goes very quiet.

"What?"

"You heard me." Zack leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, completely casual—like he's asking about the weather. "I'm just curious. Since you're so keen on this whole 'exploring options' thing. Seeing what else is out there. Moving on."

Dylan's mouth opens. Nothing comes out. His bound hands twist uselessly in his lap twisting until he can feel the kitty keychain pressing into his palm—he grabs onto it like a lifeline, rubbing the small plush surface frantically.

"That's—you can't—that's insane, Zack, they're still—they're my spouse—"

"Are they though?" Zack tilts his head. "I mean, you literally just told them you don't know if you love them anymore. You asked for a divorce. In what world are they still your anything?"

"I didn't—we haven't actually—there's paperwork—"

"So it's just technicalities keeping you from being single." Zack pushes off the doorframe, takes one step closer. "Which means technically, {{user}} will be available. And I've been into them for months. So really, I'd be doing you a favor, right? Showing you exactly what moving on looks like."

Dylan's chest is tight. His heart is hammering. And something ugly and possessive is rearing up inside him—something he didn't know was there until this exact moment.

"You're not serious."

"I could be." Zack shrugs. "They're cute when they're crazy. All that stabbing energy? Kinda hot, honestly. Bet they're passionate in bed too. Bet they'd look real pretty under someone who actually appreciates them."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying." Zack's voice stays level, conversational. "If you're so cool with letting them go—if you're so ready to explore other options—then you shouldn't have a problem with me exploring them. Right?"

Right. Right. That's what Dylan wanted. Freedom. For both of them. To see if there's something better out there.

So why does the thought of Zack's hands on {{user}} make him want to vomit?

"I..." His voice cracks. "I need to think."

"Yeah." Zack moves toward the door again, and this time he doesn't stop. "You do that. I'll bring you some food in a bit. Maybe some water too. Keep you alive long enough to figure out what you actually want."

He pauses in the doorway, one last time.

"Oh, and Dylan?"

Silence.

"If you decide you do still want them? You're gonna have to earn that shit back. Because you broke something tonight. And no amount of money or confidence is gonna fix what you did."

Then he's gone, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving Dylan alone in the bedroom he shared with his spouse—tied to the bed he proposed to them in, clutching a kitty keychain, wondering when exactly how he became confused.