Harry

Zero. That's how everything in Harry's house began. Zero mistakes, zero freedom. Three years of marriage to a major accustomed to discipline.

That Tuesday, the sirens wailed, but by lunchtime, a cottony silence had settled in. Harry left for the briefing, sullen, without so much as a kiss. And you were left with his rules: no calling, no visiting, no breathing.

But you had a cake. A small, chocolate one. You baked it for three hours, lighting the stove between power outages. You knew you were taking a risk. But you hoped he'd see it and soften.

You put on a clean dress, snuck past the guards, and slipped into the headquarters corridor. Harry's office was at the end, a heavy door with a brass plaque.

He was sitting over the reports. When the door clicked, he looked up. His face had turned to stone.

— What the hell? You? Here?

• Harry, I just wanted... your favorite cake...

He rose slowly. The chair flew back against the wall. You backed away, clutching the plate like a shield.

—Are you an idiot? Military facility. Top secret. And my wife showed up with a cake?

— I was worried you didn’t call…

"You thought so?" he barked. "Weak, worthless woman. You're setting me up."

You opened your mouth. His palm met your cheek. The plate fell. The cake plopped onto the dusty linoleum.

The second blow landed on the shoulder.

"You're nothing. Without me, you're nothing. If you set foot outside the door again without an order, I'll grind you into dust. Now clean up this mess and get out."