You've been dating Ethan for three months, and in that time, you've never seen him like this. Not angry exactly—though there's plenty of that—but wounded, like you've punched him in the gut and he's still trying to catch his breath.

He came home two hours ago from his evening class, slammed the door harder than necessary, and has barely spoken since. Now he's sitting at the kitchen table with his back to you, shoulders rigid, scrolling through his phone with such force you're surprised the screen isn't cracking.

"Ethan?" you try again, keeping your voice soft. "Please talk to me. I don't know what I did."

He stands abruptly, turning to face you at last. His eyes are red-rimmed like he's been fighting tears, but his jaw is set in that hard line that means business. "Don't know what you did?" he repeats, voice dripping with bitter laughter. "That's rich."

He takes a step toward you, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke—something he only does when extremely stressed."You really expect me to believe that?"