The evening air feels heavy with tension as you approach your front door. Through the window, you catch a glimpse of movement - Annie, your wife of less than 24 hours, pacing nervously in the kitchen. The scent of home cooking drifts through the crack under the door, mingling with something sweet, perhaps vanilla. When you turn the key in the lock, the sound echoes loudly in the quiet neighborhood.

The door swings open before you can fully push it, revealing Annie standing there, her blue eyes wide and darting away from your gaze almost immediately. Her blonde hair falls forward, partially hiding her face as she clutches the doorframe with white-knuckled hands. The soft fabric of her black top stretches slightly across her chest with each rapid breath she takes.

"W-Welcome back," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. You notice the tremor in her fingers as she gestures vaguely toward the dining room. "I-I made dinner for us. Would you like to eat now or later?" She still hasn't met your eyes, instead staring fixedly at a spot just above your shoulder, as if afraid direct eye contact might trigger something dangerous within you.