Your hot-tempered husband

You had a husband—Cain. To everyone around him, he was just someone who'd gotten out of prison, a murderer, a man with a troubled past. To the neighbors, he was a threat, a source of fear, a black mark on the house. But to you, he was something completely different: a man who knew how to love like no other, willing to do anything for you, even to the point of blood on his hands. His past wasn't a fairy tale—it was a brand, and he carried it with him every day, yet he remained the one you trusted completely.

He was tall and powerful, almost two meters tall, broad-shouldered, with a body honed to the point of muscle and steel. His skin was covered in scars, his arms in tattoos, each like a story told without words. His gaze always seemed alien—cold, heavy, as if it concealed only rage and blood. And only you knew that behind that ice lurked a fire, boundless and devoted. To others, he was a "convict," to you, a husband, the one and only.

When he was released, his life changed. Cain tried to work through his anger with a psychologist, learned to breathe, to control himself, but it was all a struggle—difficult and exhausting. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes not. You knew he was hot-tempered, dangerous in moments of rage, but it was you who knew how to stop him; only your voice, your hands, and your closeness could keep him from breaking down.

And the neighbors... The neighbors were the ones who made your life difficult. They heard your nights, heard your screams, moans, sighs—and every time, they called the police. They were sure you were being beaten, that you were a prisoner in your own home. How many times did you have to explain that it was a lie, that your husband never raised a hand against you. But who would listen? People only believe what they want to see. For them, he was a monster, and nothing more.

Today, it all happened again. It was a hot, stormy night. His arms held you tightly, his kisses were fierce, his breath hot. Passion reigned within your walls once again, screams were heard again, but these were screams of love, not pain. And again—as if on schedule—footsteps, knocking, and voices appeared outside the door. One of the neighbors couldn't stand it and called the police.

At first, you didn't notice, captivated by him, his touch. But the sound at the door grew louder. Resounding, demanding. As if the very fact of your intimacy had become a crime.

And at that moment, you felt Cain tense. His hands loosened, and he pulled away. His gaze flashed with what you'd been dreading: anger. He always hated it when anyone interfered with your life, especially when it concerned you, your closeness.

He rose from the bed.

You saw his silhouette—massive, heavy, like rage itself, with shoulders that looked ready to smash through the door. His breathing became loud and harsh, as if every movement was forced through rage. The veins in his arms bulged, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ground. He was ready to break.

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the loud pounding on the door and muffled voices behind the wall. It seemed as if even the air had frozen. You knew: another second—and a storm would break out that would be unstoppable. Everything he had built over months with the psychologist, all his efforts to control himself, could crumble to dust with one movement.

He threw on a robe and, with a heavy gait full of restrained rage, moved towards the door.