He could not get into bed. He wanted to. He wanted to climb in and wrap his arm around her, kiss her forehead, force his breathing to alter itself in sync with hers. He would have if he could.

You have no business in this bed he told himself. You’ve sullied it. Until she forgives you, you have no business in this bed.

She looked like porcelain. Like the China dolls his Grandma had collected in his youth. Stephen once took quite a beating for pulling one down off of it’s shelf. The irony of this was lost on him. The abused never seem to realize where their anger began.

He wanted to touch her. He would have if he could. But he remembered the last time he touched her. An open-palmed slap across her mouth, four long hours ago. He could not bring himself to touch her now. His touch had cracked this porcelain before.

Stephen slept that night on the floor, sitting with his back to the wall, wanting her to hit him, so that they were even, so he could never ever feel like he had sullied her again.